


The Complexion of the Dead

by fictionalfaerie, VergofTowels



Category: Hannibal (TV), Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Welcome to Night Vale Setting, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:49:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 22,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24600328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictionalfaerie/pseuds/fictionalfaerie, https://archiveofourown.org/users/VergofTowels/pseuds/VergofTowels
Summary: “You remind me of home,” he admits, unable to meet Hannibal’s eyes.He can feel Hannibal’s shadows preen at that, can feel one sliding around his neck in a dark caress.“That’s a lovely compliment,” Hannibal replies, voice thick with emotion.The laugh that claws its way out of Will’s throat is ugly and desperate.“It really isn’t,” he whispers, but he clings to Hannibal all the same.--- === ---Will has spent most of his life pretending to be as normal as he could and letting others jump to their own conclusions to explain away his remaining eccentricities. When Jack recruits him to help with a string of murders, Will has to find a balance between who he is and who he wants to be- which would be much easier without Hannibal’s interference.A Hannibal Season One AU with a slight Night Vale-esque twist.(No knowledge of NV necessary- other than to acknowledge that it's a kind of
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 84
Kudos: 382
Collections: 2020 Eat The Rude Big Bang





	1. Title Image

**Author's Note:**

> First off, absolute and unending thank yous go out to vergoftowels, my amazing artist. When I signed up for this, I had too many ideas buzzing around, and when I decided to settle on this one, I was sure no one would want anything to do with it. To see the enthusiasm you had for this idea of mine has been humbling, and the editing work you helped with was really above and beyond. Your art has taken my breath away and I cannot tell you how much I have screamed at my besties and boyfriend with regards to it. I'm sorry I've been a mess- who knew 2020 was going to spiral into madness like this?! Oof. Thank you for putting up with me.  
> Immense thanks to the other half of my soul, Nikki, for her help in this- and to Emily, for letting me screech in panic at her too often and talking me through things.  
> And finally, thank you to the mods for running such a fun event and for being so patient with me and my chaos. 
> 
> While this is a Night Vale crossover, it is absolutely not about Night Vale and you do not need to have listened to WTNV to understand it- just know that Night Vale is an eerie and mysterious small desert town that doesn’t follow any of the normal rules of our world. 
> 
> The idea for this story has been bouncing around in my head for, literally, years. Sitting down to actually tackle it involved digging through notebooks upon notebooks to find snippets I’d written at various times and reworking it to fit into this current iteration. I am beyond excited to finally share this, and I hope you enjoy it as much as I’ve enjoyed it all this time.  
> I'm going to go ahead and warn- this may feel a bit disjointed. But, that was intentional! I was trying for a feel. I think I hit it, because as I'd reread and reread and write and write, I'd find myself frustrated by how disjointed it was- but that was my goal! So, I think maybe I hit it.  
> This is unlike anything I've ever written, I think- I certainly tackled it differently and was in a different mindset doing it and went about editing a different way than I normally would, anyway. I don't think it reads like my other stuff, and that's largely the point. 
> 
> Hopefully you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed finally seeing it come to fruition.

Art by Vergoftowels  
https://vergoftowels-art.tumblr.com/  
https://archiveofourown.org/users/VergofTowels/pseuds/VergofTowels


	2. Prologue

Will Graham was born at home, with fire raining down from the sky in the middle of an eclipse. 

His mother always told him the story with nothing but fondness in her voice, voice laughing as she told him how his father had worried and stressed and fretted and paced. The power was out, the house almost completely dark, despite the candles his father had lit and the lantern he had dug out to place by the bed in an attempt to give the midwife something to work with. 

Will had been an easy birth, she always told him- only twenty minutes of labor before he came squalling into the world. His mother insisted that Will had been the most beautiful thing she had ever seen, eyes already wide and curious, already watching things that even she and the midwife couldn’t see. 

His mother had cradled him against her and felt his little heart beating, had reached out for his father’s hand and pressed it against Will’s tiny chest so that he could feel it as well. They had both looked at him and loved him more than either knew it was possible to love another being. 

=== 

Will Graham was three before he said his first words to either of his parents. 

(His father tells the story to him only once, with a heavy voice, traces of fears he never voices fluttering through despite his best efforts.)

Will walked into the kitchen, eyes tracking things that his father knew he would never see and never understand, and sat down at the table for breakfast. 

“Hungry, Will?” his father had asked, turning from the stove to look at him and motioning to where he cooked. 

“They already fed me,” Will had answered, voice steady and confident as if he spoke to his parents often. 

His mother had startled, looking up from the paper she was reading. She’d looked at his father, who had almost dropped the spatula in shock. 

“Who already fed you, Bud?” His father had asked when he recovered from his surprise. 

Will had turned to look, presumably at whoever they were, and shrugged. His mother had smiled, turning in that direction and thanking them, and then struck up a conversation with Will about what sort of adventure he wanted to go on after she and his father finished breakfast. Will had taken part in the conversation as if it were something they did daily, and neither he nor his mother had acknowledged that it was such a milestone. 

Will’s father had ended up losing his appetite. 

=== 

Will Graham was five before he realized that his father was different than he and his mother. The two had been fishing together, reeling in spiny fish that hissed as his father unhooked them and dropped them in the holding chest. 

He remembers watching his father’s face with each hiss and seeing how he frowned, each time. He remembers the way his father’s shadow had cringed away from each fish, moving closer and closer to Will, curling around him almost protectively. He remembers the other shadows, laughing and hissing along with the fish and pressing in on his father menacingly. 

He had known that his parents didn’t see the shadows like he did. His mother had told him once that most people only saw shadows as absence of light cast directly from objects- people, buildings, furniture, anything that could block out the light. She had explained to him that the shadows only moved with the light, that they didn’t get up and wander around and whisper things to other people. He’d worried at that, but his mother assured him that everyone in the town had their own gifts and that there was nothing wrong with knowing the shadows in ways no one else did. When he’d asked her what her gift was, she’d laughed lightly and told him she’d tell him when he was older. 

When they’d gotten back from fishing, his father had taken the fish off to clean them for dinner, and Will had gone to find his mother. 

She’d been in the living room, knitting and humming. 

“Did you have a good time with your father, My Darling?” 

He’d nodded, climbing onto the couch beside her, luxuriating in the feel of her happiness. Her shadow had folded itself around him and he’d felt smothered in love and affection. 

“Mom?” he’d asked, and when she’d looked at him, he continued, “What’s Dad’s gift?” 

He’d never seen her look so sad before, especially not at something he’d asked. “Your father’s gift,” she finally said, voice heavy and shadow moving to wrap around her instead, “is that one day he’ll escape this place.” 

He’d nodded quietly, pretending he understood, and watched as she resumed her knitting. 

=== 

Will Graham was seven when he figured out what his mother had meant when she told him about his father’s gift. 

He’d been watching for weeks as his parents spoke in whispers, their shadows standing so that Will’s views were blocked and making sure he didn’t hear their words. He’d seen enough, though, to know that something big was coming. 

He’d been reading by the fireplace when the whole house was suddenly filled with shadows, panicking and flickering. He’d managed to calm one down enough to catch a warning. 

“Mama?” Will had asked, going into her bedroom, where she pretended that she wasn’t packing a suitcase. “Why is the Mayor sending her police for you?” 

Later, Will will wish, on occasion, that his most vivid memory of his mother were different. 

She had gone pale at his words, tense, called out to his father. His father had rushed in, taking in the scene and going pale himself, as if he already knew what she was going to say. 

“No,” his father had murmured, reaching out to grab her and pull her to him, their shadows crowding between Will and them. 

“We’re too late,” his mother had whispered, pressing kisses against his father’s face. “You have to leave, you have to go. You have to take Will with you, get him out of here. Otherwise they’ll..” 

His father had started crying then, interrupting, arguing. The arguments were drowned out by his parents’ shadows, fluttering around anxiously. 

In the end, his mother had pulled Will in tight, kissing his cheeks and his eyes and his forehead and his nose and his hands and his lips. “Remember, Will,” she had said, voice strong and brave, “You are so beautiful. You are so loved. You are my darling.” 

His father had taken him outside, ignoring him as he’d asked why they were leaving his mother inside, why they were leaving. They’d loaded into the car and driven, faster than they’d ever driven before, ignoring traffic signals. 

At one point, as his father drove, he’d seen his mother’s shadow, frantically motioning for them to turn, so he’d pointed and whispered as much to his father, a quiet, “Mama wants us to turn here.” 

He hadn’t gotten a response, but after a brief hesitation, his father had listened, turning right off the road and driving through the desert. They’d driven through the scrubland, his father following the directions his mother’s shadow would give them, until they finally came across a road. As Will gaped at the sudden change in landscape, his mother’s shadow had blown one last kiss and disappeared. 

“Where are we going, Dad?” he’d finally asked, tearing his eyes away from the way the world was suddenly green and lush and alien. 

“Toward the mountains,” his dad had answered, nodding toward the monoliths looming in the distance. 

When they reached a town, his father had started weeping as they read the sign welcoming them to the city. He didn’t stop crying until hours and hours later, when he stopped at a hotel. 

“Where are we?” Will had asked, hating the way his voice was timid and shaky. 

“Dallas,” his father had answered, voice rough and exhausted. 

Will had nodded, accepting the answer, and followed his father into the hotel. 

The next day they’d risen early, driving even more, until they reached a sign welcoming them to Louisiana. He’d watched as his father’s shoulders relaxed, finally dropping a few inches. 

“We’re almost home, Son,” his father had said, still rough and tired and sad in a way that Will didn’t know how to fix. 

Will had looked out the window, eyes watching the mirror, and known that while that might be true for his father, he himself would likely never know what it meant to be home ever again. 

===

Will Graham was nine when he finally figured out how to pretend he was the same as everyone else. 

They’d just moved to a new town, the fifth move in two years if you included the move they never spoke of, when he’d watched his mother’s shadow fade out of existence as his father stole him away from their home. 

Five moves, three schools. 

“Third time’s a charm,” his father had laughed as they’d driven to the school on that first day, trying to disguise his worry and sadness and tiredness. 

Third time was indeed a charm, it seemed. By the end of the first week, he hadn’t made anyone cry and no one had made him cry and Andrew had even invited him to his birthday party. Sure, Patty had told Will that Andrew was inviting everyone and didn’t really want him there, but Andrew’s best friend Jimmy had told him not to listen to Patty. Will had just shrugged, had thanked Jimmy and thanked Andrew and ignored Patty. The boys’ shadows had laughed and danced around Patty and made rude gestures at her until her shadow got frustrated and puffed up at them, hissing until they’d gone back to their boys. Will had watched, interested, as the teacher’s shadow didn’t even flicker in acknowledgement of the scene. 

His father’s smile when he’d presented the invitation was something Will didn’t think he’d ever seen before. His shadow had wrapped around Will, warm and loving, and Will had retreated into his room to cry into his pillow, confused and proud and desperate to keep this up and keep his father smiling like that. 

It hadn’t been an easy process after that, figuring out what rules were his new normal and just how to act, but he’d thrown himself into it. With each move and each new school, he was proud to see he’d gotten a little better at it. 

He eventually learns that it’s easy to shrug and give vague answers to questions about spectrums. Let people lead themselves to their own conclusions and believe whatever makes the most sense for their reality’s rules. It’s easier to slide along the edges when he lets them each have their own version of him.

===

Will Graham was thirteen when his gifts began to change. 

For as long as he could remember, he’d seen the shadows lurking around, entranced as they allowed him to peek into their own shadowy world. He’d listened as they hissed at him, as they whispered secrets he didn’t want to know, as they drowned themselves in noises he didn’t have the vocabulary to describe to a world that would never hear them. He’d watched as no one noticed the way shadows danced across walls and slid into other rooms and strayed curiously away from their people. He’d trembled on the occasions where one would work up energy to speak to him, voices wavering as they used up everything in them to beg him for help he didn’t know how to give them. 

But as he found himself growing up, he found that his gifts began to grow alongside him. Words started shifting around, a physicality to them that he knew they weren’t supposed to have. When his father got angry, his words literally started to hang between them, sparkling like knives or dark like a storm, daring him to pay attention to them rather than his father’s ever growing temper. 

He accidentally mentioned it once, an offhand comment about a word being an odd color, and his father’s words had stung as they jabbed against his arms, trying to make sure he knew that he couldn’t just go around saying those things. 

As he finally got close to figuring out how to deal with it, how to exist alongside those new gifts and still fool the world, they shifted again. 

Suddenly, his father’s anger, his frustration, his fear, all took on their own lives. They started weighing down on him, enveloping him and consuming him. He’d find himself stuck in those moods, understanding entirely what was driving his father to drink or yell or sob quietly behind a closed door. 

That one… that one took a while to work through and learn to work around. 

===

Will Graham was sixteen when he realized the ways he could apply his gifts to the world around him and fit himself into it when he inevitably left school. 

Everyone at school had been discussing plans- some eager to escape the town and run away to big city colleges, some staring down the barrel of dead end jobs and shrugging at the inevitability, some just looking to figure a trade out and forge ever onward. Will had accepted pamphlets and brochures from well meaning teachers, impressed with his grades and manners. He’d accepted the pamphlets and brochures and stared at colleges he knew he’d never make it to. 

He knew he wasn’t quite smart enough to get the money he needed for those schools. He knew his father wouldn’t be able to cobble up enough for admission- hell, even for applications. Spending your life running from a threat that you can’t even name doesn’t lend itself to a comfortable life. 

And then the English teacher stepped it up a notch. She’d challenged them to consider careers and write about what they wanted to do. She’d had them fill out applications and complete essays, insisting they’d grow from the exercises even if they weren’t college bound. Will had stumbled a bit, and she’d taken him aside to work with him on it one day. She’d been patient and polite, and when she’d mentioned law enforcement, he’d bristled. 

Law enforcement called to mind secret police, lurking in bushes and coming for his mother. Law enforcement meant bored men showing up, sneering at their home as they questioned his father about why he was so thin. Law enforcement meant constantly looking over your shoulder and wondering what was going to be pinned on you because you were the new kid in town, the easiest to blame so that the kids they’d known for years could keep their reputations clean. 

But she’d been so nice, and she’d spoken so highly of Will. She’d referenced his problem solving skills and unique point of view. She’d encouraged him to consider writing about that. 

Will had felt the patience hovering around him, had ignored the way her own obvious belief that he’d likely amount to nothing given his background and how it had fluttered around his bangs. It was all just polite encouragement so that he didn’t fail an assignment, but he’d felt the words burrow in anyway. 

He did have skills that could lend themselves to solving problems others wouldn’t be able to solve. 

He’d mentioned it to his father, offhandedly over dinner. He’d shrugged as he said it, trying to ignore the way he’d watched his own disbelief hang heavy between them. 

He’d felt his father sift through his own emotions. He’d looked sad, almost, but had been proud, and Will had latched on to that, wanting to wrap it around himself and never let go. It had been overwhelming, feeling that. He knew a lot of it was that his father was proud of his growth- he’d been so skittish when they first entered this life, afraid of police and libraries and parks and mountains and and and- everything. It had been exhausting- but some of it was a different sort of pride, one Will wasn’t sure how to define. One he had never encountered before. 

His father had eventually cleared his throat, telling him that it sounded like an excellent idea if it was something he was sure he wanted. 

Will wasn’t sure there was anything he actually wanted to do, but he thought he’d be good at it… and that seemed better than doing something he hated and sucked at, so he started reading up on how to get into law enforcement after school, ignoring the way his English teacher had startled at his commitment and then preened at what a good influence she clearly was. 

He had better things to worry about than his teacher’s misplaced ego. 

===

Will Graham was twenty-three when he lost his father. When he lost the only person he had. When he lost the one solid tie to a ‘regular’ world that he struggled with. When he started worrying about losing his own sense of self. 

Will Graham was twenty-three years old when his dad’s shadow dispersed, moving on to wherever shadows went when their humans went away. 

Will Graham was twenty-three years old when he felt like he was thrown into an entirely alien world for the second time in his life, alone and terrified. 

Will Graham was twenty-three years old when he started allowing himself to get lost in his gifts. He had thrown himself into his job, letting himself fall deeper and deeper into crime scenes. He’d breathed in stale emotions and watched shadows lead him to weapons and listened to the whispers of the dead as they begged him and yelled at him and cursed him and sobbed at him. After all, it was all he had left at that point. 

Will Graham was twenty-three years old when he quit caring about what the world around him thought of him. 

===

Will Graham was thirty-four years old when he met Hannibal Lecter and when his whole world completely changed, yet again.


	3. Chapter One

When Will Graham is introduced to Hannibal Lecter, he’s unimpressed by the man.

Lecter sits beside him, asking questions Will would rather not answer- questions he likely couldn’t answer, even if he would rather. Lecter's intentions slide off of him, snaking their way around Will’s feet and pooling into a dark puddle of predictability. Will focuses on Jack instead. 

Well, on Jack’s shadow. 

He watches the way Jack’s shadow twitches, jumps, almost as if it’s embarrassed by the haphazard way Jack has clearly thrown this meeting together. When Will calls Hannibal on trying to root around in his psyche, Jack’s shadow tries to retreat altogether, shrinking behind him and sinking into the wall.

At least something in the room seems to agree with Will when it comes to Jack's actions and the man seated beside him. It reinforces his belief that shadows are always easier than people. 

As Will leaves the room, he’s almost startled to see the extra shadow lurking by the door. When he glances at it, it slides carefully over to Hannibal, oozing its way into place alongside the one that Will had found so boring, that had patiently mimicked Hannibal through the whole meeting. Will doesn’t let this stop him from leaving, but it’s definitely worth thinking about later. 

===

The shadows that had loomed around Cassie Boyle latch on to Will, buzzing around him as he stalks out of the field. A police officer scoffs at him as he walks toward the car, but the shadows swallow up her words as she scolds him for not watching for evidence. He doesn’t bother telling her that this psychopath won’t have left any evidence. 

When he gets to the SUV that he and Jack arrived in, he collapses into the back seat, breathing slowly.

The shadows follow him in, oozing through the cracked windows to wrap themselves around him. He can feel them hissing against his neck, whispered words licking along his skin. He can’t quite make out what they’re saying, but they’re nothing like the shadows from Elise Nichols’s home. 

Those shadows had been… somber, almost. Sad and mournful, protective as they’d huddled around her and tried to keep Will from looking at her. Their wails had haunted him for hours, echoing about in his head as he tried to sleep. The apologies had been loud and clear and unmistakable. 

These shadows… these shadows are delighted by the violence that had been brought down upon Cassie. They’re heavy, real in a way that shadows rarely are. Something… something about them prickles along the hairs of his neck, calling out to memories he can’t quite dredge up. 

The shadows stay in the car, stifling with their presence, until Jack finally returns. When he opens the door and climbs in, they finally dissolve, leaving Will suddenly cold. He’s thankful when Jack gets a phone call, answering with barely a glance in the rear view mirror to check on Will before turning the car on and pulling away from the scene. 

===

Most people only have one shadow, and most of those shadows behave exactly as people expect their shadows to behave. Occasionally, Will sees a shadow that doesn’t follow the rules it’s expected to live by, such as Jack's, but the shadow's counterpart never notices such things. Those people are far more interesting to Will than the typical people he interacts with, and their shadows are leagues more interesting to him than their people are. 

Honestly, it’s most of the reason he’d decided to tolerate Jack after the man had pushed his way into the classroom and whisked him away. 

People aren’t the only shadows that Will runs into, though. In his line of work, he encounters plenty of abandoned shadows, lurking around on their own, having lost their person in one way or another. 

It is truly rare, however, to find someone who has gathered more shadows. That’s the case with Hannibal, Will finds, once he gets a better look at those shadows. 

It begins with Will opening the hotel door and letting Hannibal in for some reason (he knows the reason- ‘the reason’ brazenly brushes against Will as it slides in before he's even let Hannibal into the room). 

One shadow follows Hannibal closely, adhering to the generally accepted shadow behavior so closely that at first Will thinks maybe it doesn’t always remember that it can stretch out and exist on it's own. It slides along with Hannibal, careful to lean with the light and mimic what he does, looming dramatically and shrinking daintily as called for. Every so often it forgets to follow, though, slinking away from Hannibal to investigate things he’s paying no attention to. Will tries not to focus on that shadow- if it notices him watching, it’s quick to go back to Hannibal, and Will doesn’t mean to embarrass it. He keeps track of it from the corner of his eye, trying not to get caught up in it when it does break away from those rules others have put into place for it. 

The other shadow, though… the other one’s tricky. It’s bolder, taking up space and going where it pleases, stalking around instead of hiding. Granted, if he looks at it for too long it will shrink a bit, sliding into the other and curling tightly around it, blending in and hiding away. It’s unfortunate, as Will finds he’d much rather watch it. 

It means Will spends more time than he’d like actually trying to pay attention to Hannibal himself, though, in an effort to spare his shadows the worry. 

The shadows do cause him to wonder at the man, curious as to what sort of man commands the attention of two such interesting shadows. Not, of course, that he’d admit to it. 

“I don’t find you that interesting,” he says, biting down on the words so that the sharp edges of the lies don’t cut his mouth. He can taste a coppery tang on each syllable, thick and heavy against his tongue.

One shadow- the tamer one- cocks its head, considering him in a way that Hannibal himself pretends not to. The other, though… the other shadow rises up, reaching out to touch those words that hang heavily in the air between them. Long fingers grow longer, plucking at letters, and it grows in size to match those spindly fingers. Will would almost swear that horns extend from where its eyes would be if shadows had eyes.

Whatever Hannibal’s response is, it's buried under the weight of the shadow’s fury. 

He tries not to think about the way he wants to reach out and prick his fingers on the shadow’s razor lines, how he tastes its rage on the air, on how he feels alive in a way he hadn’t since his father had stolen him away to this world.

===

Flipping through the files is a tedious process. Will keeps having to focus, keeps having to force himself to pay attention to the folders rather than Hannibal’s shadows, who seem to be as uninterested in the moment as he is. 

Hannibal had asked what they were looking for and Will had almost come up short on how to answer. He knows that most people would get nothing out of flipping through files, knows that the Shrike is much more complex than an impersonal personnel file can even hope to capture. ‘Anything peculiar’ had been the closest thing to the truth that he could muster up. 

Will knows there’s no real way to explain to someone how he knows what he’s looking for. Even if he could find the words to detail the way the clues speak to him, the way evidence and bodies sing out to him, the way everything that lingers around a crime scene whispers secrets to him, he knows there’s no way anyone would ever believe any of it. He’s lived with these sensations for the entirety of his life and there are still days where he finds himself questioning them as he grows older and more distant from the memory of his mother pressing kisses to his cheeks. These people, they just aren’t made the same way he is. 

Struggling against the monotony, Will can feel the frustration creeping in as he finds nothing amongst the files, and he’s about to give up when Hannibal’s shadow- the tamer one, as he’s coming to think of it- spots what they’re looking for. It leans in close, brushing against him in a way it has thus far been careful not to, and it takes Will a moment to figure out what’s causing it to do so. Only a moment, though, before the sparkling lights catch his eye, dancing around the folder tab. 

The other shadow, though, the brazen one… the other shadow slides to the folder completely, crawling up Will’s arm so that it can wrap itself around the file, completely hiding the lights. He runs a finger along the file, brushing through the shadow as he browses the information. The shadow vibrates against him, seeming content with the attention. 

When Hannibal inquires, Will is glad that he’s quick enough to cite a lack of address as what caught his attention. After all, he can’t very well tell the man that his own shadows helped him spot it, even if he could explain anything about his gifts. 

Together, they gather up the items Will’s deemed worth taking with them, and Will waits just long enough to allow Hannibal to take the lead. His shadow sulks, petulant and dragging its feet, but in the end, they all make it to the car without incident. He opens Hobbs’ folder, tapping his finger against it, against the post-it note attached to it. 

===

The encounter with Garret Jacob Hobbs is a shitshow from the very beginning. 

Hannibal and Will pull up to the house- a quiet looking house on a quiet looking street in a quiet looking town- and Will knows immediately that it’s the correct place. Shadows are swirling around the chimney and lingering on the porch. Will checks that his pistol is against his hip, checks that the safety is off. Hannibal raises an eyebrow at him as he does so, and Will knows it’s because nothing about this place actually looks off putting. Will shrugs it off, not bothering to explain it. He’s long been accustomed to others questioning his ‘instincts’.

“Wait here,” he tells Hannibal, getting out of the car. Hannibal does not answer but he makes no moves to follow, despite the shadow that crawls its way out after Will and moves with him, looming beside him with something that feels a lot like anticipation. 

Before he even makes it to the porch, he hears screaming begin- two female voices layered over one another. The door bursts open, shadows spilling out in a panic, and Will freezes as two bodies come out to join them. 

It’s Hobbs, undoubtedly, holding a knife to his wife’s throat. Her eyes catch Will’s and he feels like he’s drowning under the intensity in them, the terror and confusion rolling off of her with such force that they feel like a physical thing, choking him. 

“Garret Jacob Hobbs?” Will asks, trying to remain calm, trying to keep the situation from spiraling out of control. “FBI. I need you to put the knife down and release her.” 

Hobbs laughs, grins at him, and slices before Will can realize what he’s doing. The shadows on the property shriek, throwing themselves as far away from the scene as they can while still remaining tied to the place. 

It happens in an instant and yet feels like slow motion, like it takes hours and days and years and decades. 

Mrs. Hobbs’s hands fly to her throat, blood spraying the porch. Hobbs shoves her toward Will, in his general direction, keeping her between them as she collapses to her knees. Somewhere- in the doorway- a girl has appeared in the doorway, screaming alongside the shadows, backing away even as they all know that she’s too close and too slow. 

Will raises his gun; Hannibal is somehow there, beside him- they step forward in tandem: Hobbs reaches for the girl, clutching her to him; Will fires; Hannibal sinks to the ground; Will fires- fires- fires; Hannibal’s hands going around Mrs. Hobbs’s neck; Hobbs staggers backwards, hands still latching on to his daughter; Will fires- fires; Hannibal’s voice is low between them, almost inaudible over Mrs. Hobbs gasping and sobbing; Will fires- fires- fires; Hobbs finally falls, knocking his daughter down, even as she scrambles away. 

Will steps forward, looking down at Hobbs, who grins at him, murmuring in almost a laugh, “See? See?” 

Will wants to tell him that he does see. That he always sees. That he will always see. Instead he says nothing, watching as Hobbs takes his final breath, and then helping the girl move around him, pulling her away from the house and letting her bury her face against his chest, sobbing into him while he tries to make sense of what just happened, tries to filter out all the noise and violence. Will holds her to him and pretends that the way he shakes is all due to her violent trembling.

Will watches this all play out- so quickly and yet so slowly, looping around and replaying, some details sharper than others. The shadows are deafening, screaming and wailing and praying. 

He’s still pulling the trigger and watching Hobbs’s chest explode when someone interrupts, gently pries the girl away from him, and he startles when he realizes it’s a policewoman, when he realizes he’s not holding his gun and Hobbs is down and Hannibal’s by an ambulance talking with an EMT and- The girl resists, but Will helps, hands moving up to her shoulders to turn her toward the woman. As he watches her walk away, he shudders, finally coming back to himself. 

The shadows from the house are gone. A few of them still cling to the girl, working their way around her ankles as she walks, but for the most part they seem to have vanished. There are people everywhere, the once quiet house on the once quiet street in the once quiet town is now bustling with activity, the very definition of an ‘active’ crime scene. 

His eyes skitter around until they catch on a familiar shadow, looming its way toward him and curling long fingers gently around his wrist. He obliges, letting it pull him toward Hannibal, who is now speaking with an officer, likely giving his statement. When their eyes catch, Hannibal merely nods once, then turns back to the officer and clearly moves to wrap things up. 

Will waits awkwardly, feeling unsteady on his feet, until Hannibal is suddenly in front of him. 

“You look as though you could use a shower,” Hannibal tells him, offering a quirk of his lips. 

Will can’t help the bubble of laughter that escapes, taking in Hannibal, completely bloodsoaked, commenting on him instead. He scrubs a hand over his face, nods. 

“Yeah. A shower would be… a shower would be nice.” 

Hannibal quirks his lips again, but motions to the car. “The hotel it is, then.” 

Will nods, watching as the man leads the way toward the car, too tired to figure out how to follow. 

Before Hannibal can turn and notice that he’s not following, both of his shadows reach out, wrapping themselves around Will and tugging lightly until he gives in and moves, slowly following the man. He lets them move him, stepping when they do, leaning into them and letting them take some of his weight. 

Once he and Hannibal are both seated, Will watches Hannibal’s lips play at a smile. 

“What is it?” Will asks, feeling the exhaustion the day has brought settling in. 

“It looks as if we are in this together now,” Hannibal responds. 

Will presses his eyes closed, feels the way Hannibal’s shadows both press close to him, blanketing across him possessively. 

“Guess we are,” he finally replies.


	4. Art : I Don't Find You That Interesting / You Will

Art by Vergoftowels  
https://vergoftowels-art.tumblr.com/  
https://archiveofourown.org/users/VergofTowels/pseuds/VergofTowels


	5. Chapter Two

Will Graham is used to hearing things that others can’t hear, to seeing things that others can’t see. He’s… he’s not so used to hearing and seeing things that he can’t really hear or see. He’s not used to questioning what he’s hearing and seeing. He’s not used to questioning his own mind. 

When he walks the dogs there’s… something. It walks behind him, loud as it barrels through leaves and underbrush, but isn’t there when he turns to face it. He can feel it’s breath warm against his neck and moving with him as he moves around looking for it. He can sense it moving with him, staying out of his vision, whatever it is. He catches glimpses of horns and can hear hooves that are so real they vibrate the ground around him, but he can’t see it. 

And that… that’s not even counting Garrett Fucking Hobbs. 

Garrett Jacob Hobbs, who will not leave him alone. He’s like nothing Will has ever encountered before- he’s not some lost shade that’s latched on and just needs to be shaken off, he is an entity in and of himself. He watches from across the river as Will wades in to fish. He leans against the counter as Will prepares the dog’s food. He sits and listens and laughs as Will teaches his students about him, walking them through the case. He grins up at Will from graves, states away from where his own grave actually is. He looms at the end of the bed when Will wakes up shaking and swearing and sweating and-

Will hates it. 

He considers telling Hannibal, really telling him. He can feel the words form at the back of his throat, heavy with their truths. He thinks of how easy it would be to explain what he really means when he says that he’s brought Hobbs back with him, how easy it would be to explain the ways he’s different, the ways this is different. 

He can see how Hannibal listens to him, after all. He can feel the weight of Hannibal turning his words over and over, examining them and considering them before responding to Will. He’s not sure anyone’s ever really listened to him like Hannibal does. Hannibal considers Will’s words, considers his own before he answers. 

When Hannibal explains about God feeling powerful, Will can see the word hover between them. He lets the word in, pausing, tasting it and carrying it. Will thinks about pushing, telling him his truths. Instead… instead he tucks it away with the other words Hannibal has given him, sets it aside for what it is and lets his secret simmer, ever unspoken. Hobbs smirks at him from the corner and Will averts his eyes, contemplating the way Hannibal’s shadows slide through him, unaware. 

===

He hears the hooves behind him, crinkling the ground underfoot. The dogs are bounding ahead, content to nip at each other and chase after the skittering sound of small creatures. He’s not sure if he’s relieved that the dogs don’t see the stag or would rather know that it was a physical thing in this world that could eventually be explained. Sometimes… 

Sometimes not knowing is exhausting. After making sure he’s got a line of sight on each of them, he turns. Sometimes knowing that he’s the only one who sees these things, that no one will ever explain them away or figure out how and why… sometimes it’s exhausting. 

Will checks that he has a line of sight on each of the dogs, giving a sharp whistle when he realizes Buster’s on the edge of running past his boundaries. Buster immediately turns, bounding toward Ellie. When he is satisfied that no one is looking to cause havoc if he gets distracted, he takes a deep breath.

He thinks about the words Hannibal had said when he spoke of Hobbs. He’s been contemplating those words, the implication that Will would be holding on to Hobbs because he felt powerful as he pulled that trigger. He knows that’s not it, not quite, but he thinks he can see the thread that ties those words to the actual truth. 

He thinks about his life and taking back his power. Every time his gifts have shifted and changed, he’s had to learn to navigate them, had to learn to take the power away from them and take control of it. 

As he turns, he closes his eyes, until he can feel the breath warm against his face. He can feel the strands of his hair ruffling as it snorts. He can smell the earthy scent of it, inches from his nose. He centers himself, wraps these things around him as he opens his eyes, willing the stag to show itself so that he can finally start to understand it, to take power back from it. 

It works. A laugh escapes before he can help it, light and small and relieved. 

The stag is massive, as tall as he is and then some with the antlers factored in. They stand so close together that its warm breaths dance across his face as they take each other in. 

“Who are you, then?” Will asks. 

He’s not sure if he’s expecting a response, but he’s definitely relieved when none comes. 

He’s been under the assumption that the stag was a shadow, different than the others but a shadow nevertheless. However, looking at it this closely chases that thought away. Its fur is thick, defined in a way that shadows never are. The feathers are so dark that it takes him by surprise when he notices the iridescent sheen to them. Certainly not a shadow, then. At least, not a shadow like he’s ever known before. 

It reaches its neck out, pressing its snout against his arm. The chill of the nose startles him. 

Max barks, startling them both. When the stag doesn’t bound away, Will decides it’s time to continue on. He follows the dogs, each one bouncing excitedly along the path, paying no attention to the stag. He’s not sure if he’s relieved or worried when the dogs clearly don’t see the stag. At least if they saw it, he’d know it was real. 

When they get to the water, he grins at the dogs brave enough to bounce in and laughs outright at the ones who prance away, offended at the way it laps against their feet. He watches as the stag steps toward the water, walking slowly into it. It turns, looking at him, and for a moment he feels like he’s being seen- truly being seen- for the first time ever. 

One of the dogs bumps him and he glances away briefly, but when he turns back to the stream, the stag is gone. 

===

Hannibal hadn’t even blinked when Will rang his doorbell. He’d merely invited Will in, listening as he explained his morning, 

Hannibal asks him to verify that he’s no longer sleepwalking, messing with the coffee maker while he says it, and the absurdity of the situation dawns on Will. The machine looks more like a science experiment to Will than a coffee maker, but he’s willing to bet that the coffee will be better than the instant they have access to at school and at the lab. 

“Sorry it’s so early,” is all he can think to say, feeling particularly dumb even as the words leave his mouth. 

“Never apologize for coming to me,” Hannibal responds, voice heavy and serious in a way that ruffles something within Will. He glances at Hannibal’s shadows: one following almost perfectly, just off enough to remind Will that both of these shadows are fully realized even if only one has the sense to blend in; the other is by the door, stretched long across the floor so that it can hover behind him. Keeping him in? Keeping his demons out? He’s not certain what its intentions are and his head is too scattered and strained and stressed and- he doesn’t have the energy to wonder at it for long. Hannibal pulls his attention back as he continues, voice carrying less weight but no less sincerity, “Office hours are for patients. My kitchen is always open to friends.” 

Friends. The word floats through the air, soft when it brushes against him, leaving him silent. 

Hannibal stirs the coffee, and slides back into what Will would consider normal for Hannibal as he goes to hand it over. “Onset of sleepwalking in adulthood is less common than in children.” 

Will nods. He may not be a doctor, but that one is pretty obvious, even without the Googling he’d done earlier. He has to ask, give voice and words to the fear he’s been carrying around for hours now, “Could it be a seizure?” 

He grasps the coffee as he asks, stirs at it to dispel his nerves. He revels in feeling the warmth of the cup, in the feeling of knowing where he is and who he is and who he is with, in the feeling that he is alive and awake and present in the moment. 

“I’d argue good old-fashioned post-traumatic stress. Jack Crawford has gotten your hands very dirty.” 

Hannibal says this so casually, not even looking up from the machine as he makes his own cup of coffee. As if he hasn’t just put into words the fears that have chased after Will since he was old enough to realize that his childhood, his gifts, his profession- all were enough to leave him with such a heavy burden. 

He wants to argue, to tell Hannibal that if he’s suffering from post-traumatic stress it likely stems back to a terror-filled escape from a town that was actively tearing apart the one person he’s ever known loved him unconditionally and fearlessly, or perhaps from the first time a shadow rose up to call his attention away from a dead body and toward a hidden body that was even more brutal to look at, or perhaps from- it doesn’t matter. Jack Crawford isn’t the source of his trauma. He was about thirty years too late to get a claim on that. He thinks about saying that, telling Hannibal about those memories, and how Hannibal would listen to him. Instead...

“Wasn’t forced back into the field.” 

“I wouldn’t say forced. Manipulated would be the word I’d choose.” 

“I can handle it.” 

It’s an easier statement to make than all the ones sitting heavy in his throat, gnashing their truths against his tongue, trying to escape into the room. 

“Somewhere between denying horrible events and calling them out lies the truth of psychological trauma,” Hannibal responds. Will can feel that he’s aiming for flippant, can feel the way he chooses not to look at Will as he says it. His shadow, the one working in tandem with him, gives him away with it’s barely disguised interest. 

He tracks it as he lets his frustration get the better of him. “So I can’t handle it?” 

“Your experience may’ve overwhelmed ordinary functions that give you a sense of control.” 

“If my body is walking around without my permission, you’d say that’s a loss of control?” 

“Wouldn’t you?”

He’s starting to feel trapped, restless, especially as Hannibal refuses to shy away from the topic, holding his eyes with that unflinching gaze that always sees right through him. His mimic gives in and sways toward Will, moving closer, closer, while the other outright comes to pool at Will’s feet. He bites back a snarl, does his best to keep his face schooled and passive. 

He drinks his coffee and tries not to drown in his own helplessness. 

Hannibal finally releases him from the scrutiny, but continues on, “Sleepwalkers demonstrate a difficulty handling aggression. Are you experiencing difficulty with aggressive feelings?” 

It’s a laughable question that threatens to consume him. There’s absolutely no way to answer it without giving up everything he’s ever carried in him, so he deflects, “You said Jack sees me as fine china used for special guests. Beginning to feel more like an old mug.” 

“You entered into a Devil’s Bargain with Jack Crawford. Takes a toll.” 

“Jack’s not the devil.” Will’s known enough devils to say that with utter conviction. 

“When it comes to how far he’s willing to push you to get what he wants, Jack’s certainly no saint,” Hannibal responds. 

Will doesn’t think he’s ever known any saints to compare Jack to, but he also knows that he’d never consider the comparison in the first place. 

He lets the subject drop at that, relieved when Hannibal’s shadows seem to lose interest as he clearly lets it go. 

His phone chimes and he tries to ignore the way Hannibal’s smirk tells him that they both know who it is. 

===

“I’m sorry about bothering you at home yesterday,” Will tells him, letting himself collapse into one of the chairs he usually avoids. 

“I meant what I said, Will,” Hannibal responds, not looking up from his paperwork, “Never apologize for coming to me.” 

Will presses his eyes closed, reveling in the silence. 

If he concentrates, he can feel Hannibal at the desk, shifting paperwork. They’d had an argument once- not quite, but what passes as one between them- about the paperwork. Hannibal had insisted on dropping his work to focus on Will, on giving him his full attention, on not being rude and multitasking. Will had insisted that he didn’t want focus and attention, that that sort of behavior was more likely to scare him off than encourage anything out of him. He’d argued that dropping by inconsistently and spontaneously was rude in itself. He’d dismissed Hannibal’s acceptance of the habit, threatened to start sticking only to their scheduled times if Hannibal didn’t continue about his business. They had both laughed afterward, aware that it was a rather absurd argument, but Hannibal had acquiesced. It’s one of the few arguments with Hannibal where Will felt like he had won it.

It’s easier to feel the shadows in the room than it is to feel Hannibal, however. One hovers over Hannibal’s shoulder, working alongside him and never straying. The other is stretched out, climbing its way up into the library and slipping its way into the books. There are other shadows lingering, half formed and unfocussed, undoubtedly remnants lingering around after Hannibal’s patients. Hannibal’s patients… 

“Did you mean the other things you said?” Will asks, breaking the quiet that had fallen over them. 

“I’m certain that I did,” Hannibal answers, voice giving away his distractions, “But perhaps you can be more specific?” 

Will thinks for a moment, considering his words before he answers.

For such a simple and easy question, it suddenly feels too large, too important. He’s tempted to deflect away from it, change the subject or ask about the post-traumatic stress or Jack’s manipulative behavior. 

His voice catches on his honesty, though, and he releases the words before he can scare himself away from them, “When you said that your kitchen is always open to…” 

Despite his best efforts, the words catch in his throat, lodging in and refusing to budge. 

“To friends?” Hannibal supplies when it becomes apparent that Will’s going to let the question hang open-ended. He’s never one to let Will shy away from the questions that make him uncomfortable. 

Will nods, even knowing that Hannibal isn’t looking at him. 

“Certainly, Will. I do not consider you a patient, nor myself your doctor. I’ve considered us friends since very early on in our relationship, and I had thought that you did the same.” 

Will nods again, unable to find words to put around the feelings that are bubbling around inside. 

“Am I mistaken?” Hannibal asks, in a voice that implies he knows that he is correct. 

“I guess I just haven’t had a lot of friends. I’d maybe forgotten what that looked like,” Will answers, trying not to think about how the words stick against his tongue, hesitant to be released. 

“That is another thing,” Hannibal says quietly, and Will finally looks at him, “That we likely have in common, Will.” 

They’re both silent for a long moment, until Hannibal takes mercy on him, “What did Jack have for you today, Will?” 

Will can talk about the angels with far more ease than he can talk about his own life, so he allows for the subject change, telling Hannibal about the scene and letting him add his own insights. The input helps, reframes things that don’t always make sense from the angle Will catches them at. It’s especially useful when Hannibal can provide books to back up his commentary, books that Will can peruse at his own leisure when the scenes decide to keep him up at night. 

When the conversation turns toward Jack, Will can’t help bristling as Hannibal manages to put into the words the very fears that Will’s been quietly tamping down for- what is it now? Days? Weeks? Months? Years?- casually and with ease. He’s perhaps a bit sharper with Hannibal than he intends to be, but Hannibal handles it with grace, swinging the conversation back to the angel maker. 

“Who prays over us when we sleep?” Hannibal asks, and Will manages not to shiver as Hannibal’s shadow slides along his shoulders with the words, letting the consonants ruffle against his hair. 

Will doesn’t have an answer for that one, lapsing back into a pensive silence. He settles into a seat again, flicking through the book as Hannibal goes back to his desk to continue the notes he was compiling. He skims the words in front of him, stopping occasionally when something catches his eye, or when Hannibal’s shadow calls attention to a phrase that seems worth looking at. 

A good bit of time has passed by the time he puts the book up, sliding it into his bag. 

When he speaks, his voice sounds tired even to his own ears, “Do you really think Jack’s abandoning me to these things?” 

He can tell that he gets Hannibal’s attention with that; he knows he’s putting the pen down and closing the journal, giving Will his focus. Will doesn’t offer him the same courtesy, instead covering his eyes with a hand as he slumps back. He pushes his fingers against his eyes until it hurts. 

“I don’t know that abandonment is the word I would choose to describe Jack’s behavior.” 

“What word would you choose, then?” 

“Negligent, perhaps? His desire to get the job done by any means necessary means that his priorities are not always where they should be when it comes to his team.” 

“Negligence. Like I’m some sort of child, left to my own devices and in danger of harming myself,” Will snorts, ruffling the shadow that’s perked back up from the bored lethargy it had fallen into as he read. 

“I’d picture it more as tools. Tools will work long after they’ve begun to rust with neglect, but if cared for properly the end result is far quicker and cleaner,” Hannibal tells him. Will can almost taste the nonchalance Hannibal is forcing into the words. He can hear a clicking from the shadow as it slides around his chair, blanketing him in a sort of darkness that’s quickly becoming familiar. 

Will doesn’t respond, instead turning the commentary over in his head to examine it, waving a hand to disperse the shadow so that he’s not distracted. 

Hannibal isn’t wrong- Jack is certainly being careless, ignoring his own promises to Will and Alana both. He can’t help wondering, though, why Hannibal is so careful with his word choice, with his tone and his phrasing and his commentary. Hannibal knows Will’s thoughts on Jack’s rough nature, knows that Alana doesn’t approve. What could be driving him to be so careful adding his own opinion into the mix? Why is he having to choose the way to deliver them? 

It’s not as if Hannibal stands to gain anything from Will or Jack, either one, no matter their working relationship. 

“You’re probably not wrong,” Will tells him, shrugging it off. 

“I rarely am,” Hannibal responds, a teasing lilt to his voice. 

Will laughs at that, grabbing his bag and stretching, “And on that note, I’m going to get out of here before I allow your ego to grow any more.” 

Hannibal looks over at him, the hint of a grin around his lips, “I suppose that is for the best. It’s getting a bit late.” 

“Thank you for your help, the book,” Will says, motioning toward his bag as he heads to the door. “I’m sure I’ll talk to you soon, Hannibal.” 

He’s almost out the door when Hannibal’s shadow comes slinking toward him, wrapping around his feet one more time before he can exit. Before he can wonder at it, Hannibal calls out, to him, a soft, “Will?” 

“Yeah?” Will asks, turning back to look at him. 

Hannibal looks at him, expression unsure. It’s not a look that is at home on his face, and Will tries not to let it rankle him that he can tell it’s a look Hannibal is choosing to call upon rather than a natural look, that this is clearly an act because he knows that’s how he should look in the moment. 

“I wasn’t completely honest with you before, Will. I don’t think of you as a friend- not... strictly as a friend, anyway,” Hannibal says, and while this would normally read as natural and shy, Will can tell the words are chosen with care and measured, can tell that Hannibal is watching him for a reaction. Hannibal’s shadow trembles where it’s wrapped around him as Hannibal continues, “I feel it’s only fair to let you know that I’ve developed quite an interest in you, beyond that. I hope this doesn’t make you uncomfortable?” 

Will turns the words over in his head, lets himself look unsure, knowing Hannibal will interpret it as a reaction to the words rather than Hannibal’s presentation of those words. The shadow not currently wrapped around Hannibal begins to give away his impatience for an answer, letting itself move to slip closer, closer. 

“No. I’m not- no. Not uncomfortable,” he manages, just as that second shadow joins in with the other, helping to envelope his legs. 

“It needn’t affect our friendship,” Hannibal continues, schooling his features into earnestness and relief, “But I thought you deserved the truth.” 

Will nods, letting his eyes focus on the floor, watching as the shadows move slowly up his legs, reaching out tendrils to loop around his wrists. 

“If you don’t feel the same, I completely understand, and it will not change anything. But, I thought, perhaps you might think on it.” 

Will nods, “I’ll… I’ll think about that. I’ll be honest, though- I know even less about that than I do about having friends.” 

Hannibal quirks a smile at him as he waves goodbye, finally stepping out of the shadows and sliding out the door. 

===

“You’re the head of the Behavioral Science Unit, Jack. Why don’t you come up with your own answers if you don’t like mine.” 

Everyone freezes as Jack stalks his way in front of him at that, even the shadows that had been flickering around them seem to seize up, all suddenly taking an interest in the scene about to play out. 

“I did not hear that. Did I?” Jack growls, voice heavy and dark and loud in a way that matches his shadow’s tendency to loom over everything. It’s a question, but not; it’s a threat, but not; it’s a dare, but not. 

Zeller and Price both decide to move on, Katz joining. He can hear the various agents behind him following, too. Everyone knows the wrath that lives in Jack, coiling around and ready to strike, always held at bay. 

Will thinks about Hannibal’s warnings, thinks about the way Jack’s gotten more demanding and less considerate. He thinks about the ways in which he doesn’t necessarily trust Hannibal’s motivations, but definitely trusts his words. 

“I can repeat it, if you’d like,” Will answers, steady and sure of himself in a way he hasn’t felt lately. He thinks of the angel stretched out above them, watching over the scene, an unholy guide to get them through this. The shadows that have been praying at its feet have resumed their swaying benedictions and Will lets his mind stretch out a bit, latch on to the devotions they are feeling. 

“What the hell is going on here, Will?” Jack asks, missing only a few beats in response to Will’s continued defiance, adjusting his stance. He’s still looming, still trying for intimidating- would be achieving it with anyone else, in any other moment- but he’s centered himself in a way that makes him look all the more immoveable. Will ignores him, watching his shadow instead- it looms and grows, clearly trying to intimidate Will, but it flickers back under his gaze. 

Will spent enough of his teenage years being bullied to remember how it feels. He also remembers that ignoring it never actually made the problems go away. 

With no more hesitation, he meets Jack’s eyes, chin strong and raised, “It’s about the way you’ve been saying one thing and doing another, the way you’ve been asking and ignoring when the answers didn’t suit you. It’s about the way I’m not even your actual fucking employee, Jack.” 

Jack opens his mouth to argue, and Will interrupts, “No, Jack. No more of this. If you want my help, I will give you my help. If you’re not pleased with the help I have to offer, I’ve got better things to do.” 

He motions a hand to the angel stretched above them, “I can tell you what I get from this, but I can’t conjure up answers to every question this guy brings up, Jack. I’m tired of you taking everything I have to give and telling me it’s not enough. It’s a hell of a lot more than you had before I started talking.”

Whatever response Jack has is lost as Katz finally finds the nerve to come back, breaking through the bubble everyone had left for them. 

Jack lets it go, but Will’s certain that it’s not forgotten. It’s fine, though. 

After all, he thinks, closing his eyes and letting the angel maker’s prayers sweep through him, don’t they all answer for their sins in the end, one way or another? 

===

The angel takes up the entirety of the barn, it seems. It looms large and impressive over them, making sure it is the focal point of the area, that no one could possibly miss it. He was not a large man, but the placement works for him. 

“This will be the last one,” Will says as Jack lets out a frustrated sigh. 

Jack looks up at the angel alongside him, as if questioning Will’s proclamation. Budish seems to stare down at them, a violent angel in repose. “It’s Budish?” 

“He made himself an angel,” Will answers, watching as the shadows in the barn hover around it, almost praying. He thinks about what it must be like to know what you want, who you are, who you are meant to be. He thinks about the conviction it must have taken to go through with this. 

He steps closer, listening to Jack yell for people in the distance. 

“It wasn’t God. Wasn’t man. It was his choice to die,” Will says, trying to keep the awe out of his voice. 

“His choice?” Jack sounds dubious. 

“As much as he could make it,” Will amends. 

Something must come through in his voice, because Jack rounds on him, “You feeling a shortage of choices?” 

“I don’t know how much longer I can be all that useful to you, Jack,” he admits. Putting words to his fears is harder than he expected. Easier than he expected. Different than he expected. He’s not even allowed himself to admit this to himself yet, in as many words. Saying it out loud… it’s like stringing himself up and spreading wings he’d carved onto his back. 

“Really? You caught three. The last three we had, you caught. You caught three of them.” Well, maybe it’s like carving the wings on his back. He should know that Jack will never let him go so easily as this man went. 

“I didn’t catch this one. Elliot Budish surrendered,” Will points out. 

Jack lets out some frustration, turning to leave him, “I’m used to not getting information from my wife. I don’t need to not get information from you, too.” 

Will bites his tongue and tries not to let the words get to him. This is more manipulation, bringing up his personal life for the first time in the midst of all of this- it’s clear that Jack’s losing his hold and starting to slip away, so he’s trying to carve out a new handhold and see if it works. His shadow’s giving away the aggressive stance he’s obviously trying to hold back, trying to intimidate Will without even seeming to realise it. 

“It’s getting harder and harder to make myself look,” Will admits. If Jack wants to wield truths like a weapon, Will can as well- it’s an art he’s skilled at. Each truth he looses feels more and more overwhelming, relieving. 

“No one is asking you to look alone,” Jack says, and Will wants to laugh. Wants to take his words from earlier and throw them back in his face, wants to hiss out ‘I’m asking you’ and see if Jack even remembers saying it. 

Instead, he answers simply, “But I am looking alone. And you know what looking at this does.” 

Jack doesn’t deny it, instead goes for the guilt with, “I know what happens when you don’t look. So do you.” 

“I can make myself look, but the thinking is shutting down.” 

“What is it about this one?” 

Will wants to laugh, wants to tell him that it’s not this one. It’s Garrett Jacob Hobbs riddled with bullet holes, and ‘See? See?’ while his wife struggles not to drown in her own blood and his daughter screams for help that’s right in front of her yet seems like it’s never coming. It’s bodies buried alive, riddled with mushrooms, a man so desperate for connection that he turns to the earth because humanity has failed him. It’s a boy, curled in a fireplace and burnt to a crisp because he couldn’t kill his own mother, and another boy standing by and watching after having successfully executed his family, and another boy scared and wondering if he can pull a trigger and watch like the others or if he’ll meet a fiery fate instead. Sure, it’s this one, too: a man so desperate for hope and salvation that he has to make his own, a man so abandoned by God that he’s carving his own angels to protect himself. 

He can’t say all of that, though, manages instead with, “It’s not this one. It’s all of them. It’s the next one. It’s the one I know is coming after that.” 

“I don’t think you want to go back to your lecture hall and read about the next one on TattleCrime.com”

And he doesn’t- doesn’t ever want to look at another photo or stand in front of another batch of students and teach them how to identify suck marks in bites… but not for the reasons JAck thinks. 

“No, I don’t. But that may be what I have to do. This is bad for me.” 

“I’m not the pope, I’m not going to tell you what you ought to do-” 

Which is so laughable that he has to interject, because, “Sounds like that’s exactly what you’re going to do.” 

“You go back to your classroom and there’s more killing that you could have prevented, it will sour that classroom forever.” 

That classroom is already soured, he wants to say. That might be more than he’s ready to give away, though. “Maybe. Then maybe I’ll find a job as a diesel mechanic in a boatyard.” 

It’s what his father had done when his world had fallen apart. It’s what Will knows. 

“If you want to quit, quit,” Jack says, Jack dares, Jack taunts, before turning and leaving, leaving Will alone in the barn with the angel that’s been watching over them throughout this whole thing. 

The dismissal stings- it shouldn’t, it’s not unexpected, but it does. 

He turns back toward the angel, and finds himself entirely unsurprised to find the man lumbering toward him. 

Will watches him stumble closer and wonders if this is real or not. The way the floor creaks lightly under him, the way his shadow slides along, Will can’t help but think that this is real. He’s aware of his gun against his hip, but holds off, watching to see how this will go. He watches how the man falls to his knees, and Will tries not to think about prayer and benedictions. 

“I see what you are,” Budish says, voice weak and body swaying, held up by the shadows surrounding him, his own shadow stumbling toward Will. 

“What do you see?” Will asks, unable to resist.

He knows he shouldn’t ask. A voice hisses in his ear- ‘See? See?’- and Will has never wanted to see anything less than whatever it is these men are seeing, what they want him to see. He thinks back to the dark cloaked figures that would pass their house, his mom closing the curtains over the window and whispering ‘you don’t need to see that, my darling’ and beckoning him into the kitchen to help her cook. 

“Inside. I can bring it out of you,” Budish responds. He’s looking at Will, though Will, into Will. 

“Not all the way out,” Will answers, wondering what he means, even as he says it. 

Will reaches for his gun, but remembers firing- firing- firing- firing- firing, remembers ‘See? See?’, remembers the way the shadows had shrieked and flown away from that house, released at last as the man had finally collapsed. He can’t bring himself to raise it. 

“I will give you the majesty of true Becoming,” Budish replies, before collapsing on the floor. Will watches him, turns to look, to see if Jack saw any of this. There is no one, and when he turns to look at Budish… 

He is back on the ceiling, strung up and displayed just as he had been. 

He stumbles out of the barn, kneeling and vomiting, letting everything that is in him come up, wishing he could let these emotions that are festering over come out, too. Jack startles where he’s leaning against the car, moving quickly toward him, but he waves him off. 

He’s not sure if he’s thankful that Jack listens or wishing that Jack would ignore him and barge over, talk him through the panic roiling inside of him. 

Later, Jack finds him giving a statement to someone who’s got the mundane task of collecting them all, pretty much useless at this stage in the investigation. Will doesn’t mind, though, as it means he doesn’t have to write his own report in this case. Jack waits until the woman is done with Will before he pulls him aside. 

“What’d you see back there, Will?” he asks, and Will wants to laugh. Wants to laugh and laugh until his throat bleeds. Jack’s words rattle around in his head, blending in with a hissed ‘see?’ that he just can’t seem to escape. He’s not sure which one he wants to answer less. 

If this is what it means to ‘not do it alone’ then it’s pretty late in the game. 

“Nothing that made any sense,” Will answers, the truth and a lie at the same time. 

“Try, then,” Jack demands. “Because I know you, Will. This might be rough on you, but that’s new.” 

He tries not to remember his words in the alley, accusing Jack of ignoring answers he didn’t like and shoving at answers until they reformed in ways that pleased him. 

“I saw… I saw the salvation of a man desperate and ravaged by cancer,” Will finally answers. 

“What does that mean, Will?” 

“I’ll let you know if I figure it out,” Will shrugs. 

Jack hums, nods. He makes to walk away but stops himself, looking at Will one more time. “Are we good?” 

Will thinks again about their argument earlier. He thinks about the way Jack ignored his words again, tried to manipulate him with threats of how he’d feel if he left, tried to make him feel responsible for murders that might happen if he left. ‘If you want to quit, quit’ echoes around in his brain. 

He wants to quit. He wants to quit. He wants to quit. He wants- 

He bites back everything he wants to say, shrugging at Jack instead. “Does it really matter?” 

Jack watches him for a moment, then heads over to join the others. 

He tilts his head back and laughs a bit, muttering a quiet, “Didn’t think so.”


	6. Chapter Three

When he closes his eyes to sleep, he can hear the voices from the hospital hissing in his ears. He can see shadows darting around the room, calling out their sins. He can taste the heavy metallic bars and feel them boxing him in. 

The dogs whine and they’re so far away, whines echoing down hallways and elevators and glass walls and- Winston barks, right in his ear. He jerks, trembling, and turns to his face against the pillow. The shadows still linger around the room, but they’re less menacing with Winston standing guard by the bed, tail thumping lightly against the floor. 

“Hey, boy,” he whispers, reaching a hand out. He tries to pretend that it doesn’t feel like his hand is bumping against metal bars. The shadows shriek, pressing in, heavy and foreign. 

He fights his way out of the sheets, stumbling toward the kitchen to get some water. He avoids his phone; he knows it’s just full of angry texts from Jack, demanding that he tell them about how Able’s the Ripper. 

But he can’t. Able’s shadows… they’d been so loud and so wild, but new- entirely new. There was no recognition there for him. He doesn’t know how to translate that to Jack. He doesn’t know how to tell him that the Ripper’s scenes, even just the photographs of them, hold something so familiar to him. He can’t figure out why, can’t put words to what he knows about them, can’t figure out what calls to him from them… but there’s something. It couldn’t possibly be Able… 

He thinks about how crazy that sounds. He can’t just… he can’t just feel things. From photographs. He shouldn’t be able to look at photographs and taste violence in the air, feel last words floating around and vibrating in his skull. 

“See?” Hobbs whispers, and Will wants to fall to his knees and sob. He wants his mom’s hand, cool against his forehead, soothing away the nightmares and scaring away the shadows that didn’t want him to sleep. He wants his dad, flipping on the light and sitting down beside him, quiet and steady. He wants Winston, whines soft but loud enough to call him back to the present. He wants Hannibal, listening to his fears and helping him untangle them. 

He wants… 

He wants Hannibal, listening to his fears and helping him untangle them. He can hear Hannibal’s voice, lilting and calm. Hannibal’s voice… telling him just enough to confuse him, to make the hissing shadows go quiet, but to stir up his own demons. To confuse him and make him question the world he’s trapped himself in… 

He wants… 

He just wants to trust himself again. 

He feels the shadows sliding closer to him, hissing and shrieking, stifling him as he tries to gulp down more water. 

“See?” Hobbs whispers, and Will turns to him, ready to scream his rage and frustration. He comes up short, though, as he sees Hobbs. Hobbs is there, angry and dead, but his skin’s turning black, growing shadowy. His fingers reach out toward Will, extending closer and closer. His eyes darken, his body elongating. 

“See?” Hobbs whispers, and Will tries to figure out why the words look so familiar to him, why the fingers brushing against his shoulder seem like they’ve rested there before… 

“See?” Hobbs hisses, and Will chokes back a sob, dropping his glass. Winston whines, bumping against him, and he lets himself sink to the floor, ignoring the hoofbeats in the other room. He buries his face in Winston’s fur. 

He wants… he wants Hannibal, telling him that he’s not crazy. But he’s not sure he’d believe it, even coming from him. 

“See?” Hobbs whispers, the word heavy in the air, and Will closes his eyes, certain that he doesn’t want to see. 

===

Will stretches as he gets up. He’s not sure what time it is, how long he managed to sleep there, awkwardly crammed on the couch between the dogs. He’s not even sure how he ended up there, how he managed to sleep. He feels better now, though. The shadows that followed him home from the hospital seem to have retreated and he can’t hear them screaming, can’t see Hobbs hovering around the room. 

He picks his phone up, flipping through texts from Jack asking if he’s got any ideas about the Ripper photographs he’s been looking through, texts from Jack pressing him about Able, the texts from Jack telling him about a scene he’s looking into, the texts from… the texts from Jack. 

There’s work to do, no matter how much he wants to go toward the bedroom and try to sleep. It’s unlikely that he’d have any luck with it, anyway, given the whispers he can hear from the bedroom. 

He wanders into the kitchen and flicks on the radio, managing a smile when the Weather begins just as he does, with haunting strands of music that fill the house with warmth. 

He probably shouldn’t tune in like this, but on the rare occasion the radio decides to pick the station up, he can’t help it. It always takes him back to when he was little: gardening with his father and shopping with his mother, meandering drives along the outskirts of town with the two of them. 

He lets it play while he pulls out the file he’d told Jack he’d look through. Old Ripper scenes he’s promised to look at, the very same ones that Miriam Lass had pored over, likely in her own kitchen, with her own cup of coffee. 

He spreads them out, neat stacks all lined up. Nothing obvious ties them together, aside from the artistry. The precision, the vision… he wonders how many scenes they’ve overlooked, how many of the Ripper’s pieces have gone unnoticed. In the far reaches of his mind, his high school art teacher is talking about how Van Gogh didn’t get recognition until after his death- he shouldn’t laugh at the comparison, but there’s no one here to judge him. 

The dogs are all scattered, dozing on the floor now that he’s abandoned them and the couch, not even curious as to whether he’ll scrounge up any food here in the kitchen. 

He chooses a photo at random, picking up the entirety of the stack, letting himself look at it from all of the angles available to him. 

Eyes closing, he can feel himself rewinding, time unfurling around him as his surroundings warp and twist. 

When he opens his eyes, Will is in another time, another place, another mind. The Weather still sings in the background, grounding him just enough to reality, but it doesn’t stop him as he steps forward, toward the door of the ramshackle store in front of him. Through the window he can see the man he is here for, hunched over the counter in front of him. 

“I am careful with the door,” he murmurs, reaching up to catch the bell. He enters silently, leaving the man unaware that anyone has entered. “Jason Decker does not hear me coming.” 

The man in question is flipping through a book, completely ignorant of the fate that awaits him. He’d been in earlier and the man had been in largely the same position, but behind the counter. He’d been rude, had lied about something. What had he lied about? 

It doesn’t matter anymore, Will thinks, grabbing the man and forcing him to his knees. The struggle is vicious, but Will overpowers him, grinning into his face as he contemplates how best to remove his eyes…

Will steps back, surveying the scene. The eyeballs barely weigh anything on the scale he’s placed them on, and Will can’t bring himself to look away from them. He can see dark fingers ghosting over the edge of the scale, can feel dark pleasure rolling out of the corner in tendrils. As he looks toward the darkness, he frowns, wondering why he cannot see it. 

He flips the photograph over and he’s standing in a church, staring down at Frank Moore. The Bible in his lap is open to Proverbs, his tongue marking the passage he’s chosen for the man. A bit on the nose, but he’s pleased with it, nevertheless. He can feel the joy radiating from the shadow to his left, but he can’t quite place why the emotion tastes so familiar. 

He leans down, adjusting the man’s hand so that it’s just so, perfectly aligned with his vision as he- 

Will blinks, frowning down at the photographs. Buster comes padding softly into the room, tail wagging as he looks up at Will.

“Hey, Bud,” he murmurs, flipping through the photographs as he reaches down to rest a hand on Buster’s head. “This isn’t… this isn’t working, is it?” 

Buster offers up no answer, just collapses against his feet. Will taps a finger on the photographs- he’s not trying to see the Ripper’s design, not right now. He’s trying to figure out what Miriam would have seen… 

Every time he looks at the photos, tries to find the right frame of mind to think like Miriam, but something just keeps calling to him, enticing and alluring, calling him back to the scenes, beckoning him to get his hands bloody as he shoves the phone into Linda Smith’s chest cavity…

He shakes himself, trying again. 

He blinks and looks around, taking in the table in front of him. The photographs are spread in front of him: seven photographs, seven murders. He runs his fingers over the three at the top, then moves to the three in the middle, but stops before he gets to the last two. He reaches down to pick up a legal pad, frustrating the cat that’s been perched in his lap. 

He tries to focus on the writing, but the words blur out of focus, even as he picks up a pen and begins to write, making notes about the church scene. 

He moves toward the bottom row of photographs, letting out a growl of frustration as he finds they’re blurring together. 

“Why isn’t this working?” he asks Buster. In response, he gets a light snore. 

A glance at the clock tells him that it’s well past time to head toward the bedroom. He knows it’s futile, can see the shadows peering across the wall at him, unpredictable and hateful now that they’ve found their freedom from the hospital. 

Instead of moving toward the bedroom, he lets himself slip back into the Ripper… 

Jeremy Olmstead is still alive, whimpering softly as he scans the room for more tools that he might shove through the man. His shadow is curled in a corner, terrible and terrified. Will’s shadow, though, Will’s shadow is thrilled, rising up over the body and basking in the violence. 

“This is our design,” he murmurs, confident that he’s executed it perfectly even as he’s driving the last scalpel into his hand, and his shadow shivers unhappily. His shadow is wrathful, stalking around the room. The violence he’s wrought on this man is not enough, it’s not enough, he can feel it’s disappointment. She deserved better, she- 

Who? Who deserved better? As Will turns to look at the shadow, the world tilts again, and he’s scribbling furiously on the legal pad, words that blur out of reality and won’t focus. 

“I need to be looking into doctors,” he says, shaking his head. “I need to be looking into doctors, ones who know how to remove organs with the least amount of damage, ones who have any connection to any of the victims…” 

Will tilts his head, “Jeremy Olmstead is the key. I begin by looking into his-” 

A knock on the door startles Will. He jumps, waking up Buster and scattering the photographs.

He makes his way over, stretching as he goes, wondering at how many hours he’s lost to the photographs. When he opens the door, he raises an eyebrow at Jack. 

“Busy?” Jack asks, letting himself in. He surveys the kitchen, not waiting for Will to respond as he moves toward the photographs. “Making any progress on these?” 

“Just trying to follow Miriam,” Will answers, collapsing back into his seat. He taps the top photograph, “I’m struggling with them. I don’t see… I get the scenes, obviously, but it’s the same problem, all over again. They don’t fit together. Instead of a series of self portraits, these are… they’re landscapes in a gallery.” 

“You think I didn’t follow Miriam?” Jack asks, voice raising. His shadow grows, bristling at whatever slight he feels he’s received. 

Will rolls his eyes, not bothering to even acknowledge Jack’s shadow, “I know you followed her. But, I think sometimes it doesn’t hurt to revisit. You think the same, or you wouldn’t have given me this file.” 

The words hang in the air between them as Jack deflates, moving to sit in the chair across from Will. “What have you got from these?” 

“Honestly, I’m not sure. I think Jeremy Olmstead was the catalyst to whatever she found, but I can’t… she’s not speaking to me, Jack. She spoke to you. I think she told you more than you realize.” 

Jack studies him for a moment before nodding, seemingly appeased. He runs a hand across his face before he speaks, and when he does his voice is tired. “Well, leave those there for a while. We’ve got a scene to get to.” 

“Ripper?” 

“That’s for you to tell me. I think… I think it might be, though.” 

“Guess that’s what warranted a house call, huh?” 

“Nah,” Jack answers, and Will tries not to cringe at the way Jack forces a grin. “I was going to stop by later, anyway. Wanted a chance to pick your brain about Miri- about the Ripper cases. Thought it might be easier on your own turf.” 

Will snorts, standing up and motioning for Jack to lead the way. “It wouldn’t be. This car ride will work in your favor.” 

===

He knows he should follow Jack. He can hear the chatter as they go through the process of arresting him, but Will can’t tear his eyes away from Hannibal. Hannibal, with his hand buried in this man, his hand physically holding someone’s life in his hands. This is the second time he’s seen this, but this time he’s not trembling his way through shock. It’s… fascinating, really, seeing Hannibal this way. 

His shadows are involved. The one that tends to mimic him is crouched over the man’s shadow, busying itself with it in some way Will’s not overly concerned with, because the other one… the other one is almost glowing. It’s so jubilant that Will can feel it all the way over here, can see the way the glee drips off of it. It catches Will looking, but instead of shrinking away as it often does, it preens, curling around the scene and humming. Every time the man’s shadow starts to shudder, one of Hannibal’s will pull it closer, almost as though they’re helping Hannibal keep the man in place. 

Will watches as Hannibal works, sure of himself in a way Will doesn’t think he’s ever been. He wonders what it would be like, knowing yourself, your mind, your skills… he wonders what it would be like to know yourself beyond a shadow of a doubt. 

He wonders what it would be like to know yourself even a little bit. 

“See?” Hobbs whispers, and Will thinks that he does see, he just isn’t sure what he’s seeing…

Hannibal looks up, eyes locking with his, and Will can feel the contentment rolling off of Hannibal’s shadows in that moment. He lets it wash over him, savoring the way it feels like a comfortable blanket. It’s nice, feeling this again. He feels like he’s been chasing it for ages, when for so long he’s been- 

“See?” Hobbs whispers, and Hannibal’s shadows both hum loudly, happy in the moment. 

“See?” Hobbs whispers, and Will is pretty sure that he forgets how to breathe. 

===

It makes sense, though. It makes sense, is the thing. It makes sense, no matter how he looks at it. 

The scenes… the copycat scenes and the current Ripper stuff and the Ripper photographs and the way Hannibal’s shadows call out to him and… 

It makes sense. 

===

Will knows he only has so much time before Hannibal’s guests start filtering in. He thinks about saying as much, but can’t quite find the words. 

Hannibal saves him from it, smiling as he asks, “Are you sure you can’t stay?” 

Will quirks a smile at him, offering up the wine as an apology as he answers, “I don’t think I’d be good company.” 

He doesn’t miss the way Hannibal’s eyes flick down to his lips, so he quirks them again. Hannibal’s lips twitch in response. “I disagree. But, before you go… what came of Mr. Silvestri’s donor?” 

Will works to tamp down the hint of pride and admiration he feels, shrugging as he answers, “You saved his life.” Hannibal doesn’t need any ego boosts, after all. 

He can tell it doesn’t work, however, when Hannibal’s shadows both preen under Will’s words. “It’s been a long time since I used a scalpel on anything but a pencil,” Hannibal tells him, allowing a hint of a smile. 

“Why did you stop being a surgeon?” Will asks. He has a feeling he knows the real answer- the answer Hannibal wouldn’t come out and tell him- but he’s curious as to what answer Hannibal will give.

“I killed someone.” 

The words are vibrant in the air between them, glistening in the air, and before Will can react, Hannibal continues. “More accurately, I couldn’t save someone. But it felt like killing them.” 

Will is proud of his recovery, the words coming out without him thinking on them, “You were an emergency room surgeon. It has to happen from time to time?” 

“It happened one time too many,” Hannibal answers. Will tries not to startle at that answer, at how closely it echoes his feelings about everything lately. Hannibal’s shadow slides toward Will, wrapping around a wrist, as Hannibal continues, “I transferred my passion for anatomy into the culinary arts. I fix minds instead of bodies, and no one’s died as a result of my therapy.” 

Will’s willing to bet that the answer Hannibal has just given him isn’t very honest. He needs to get out of here before he allows himself to get caught up in this, before he gets so entranced in his curiosity that he ends up trapped at a dinner party he has no place at. 

“I should go. I’ve got a date with the Chesapeake Ripper,” Will says, taking a risk, testing a theory. 

The theory proves to be effective. Hannibal’s shadows, both of them, light up at this. The one more likely to mimic Hannibal goes from supervising waitstaff (no doubt what Hannibal would be doing if Will weren’t here) to snapping back to Hannibal, making itself as boring and unobtrusive as it can be, even as it watches Will. 

The other shadow, though… the other one is almost incandescent. It’s been wrapped around Will’s wrist, but it positively engulfs him when he says that, completely surrounding him and letting out a rush of air that Will knows takes effort. It’s preening, warm and thrilled, almost pulling him toward Hannibal.

Hannibal… Will can feel the frustration warring against the smugness, can feel the way his phrasing has lit a spark within Hannibal. 

It’s enough to let Will know that maybe… maybe he does see. 

Fuck.


	7. Chapter Four

Will’s losing time. It probably shouldn’t surprise him. 

One minute, he’s stretching himself to play a violin that’s been crafted from a man’s neck. Hobbs is clapping from the audience, and Will’s whole world feels like it’s swimming, and he feels like he’s wading through it to find his way to the music. 

“Did you sing for him?” he asks, feeling weighed down by the words, feeling each word heavy on his tongue. 

“He spent so much time preparing you,” Will says, imagining how much time and passion the murdered must have put into this one. Will tries not to break down under the weight of that. He closes his eyes, leaning into the moment and letting it to take over, letting it tell him what it needs to, “And then he- 

-played you like a fiddle…” he finishes, breathing deeply and opening his eyes. He’s expecting to see Hobbs, mocking him, so it’s a jolt when he doesn’t see him. He jerks when he opens his eyes to the morgue. He tries to recenter himself, tries to recall how he got here, even as Zeller and Price pick up some chatter, Katz . 

Zeller’s saying something about olive oil, so Will latches on, digs his fingers into the words to ground himself in the moment. Their shadows are flitting around the morgue, investigating things that Will should be paying attention to, things that will tell him what he needs to know… but he can’t let go of his coworkers’ voices. 

One of them mentions the vocal chords being hardened, and WIll speaks before he can help it. “Made him easier to play.” 

The words aren’t his own and he barely has a moment to worry about them before he continues, disdain dripping from every word, anger racing its way through his veins as he spits out someone else’s truth, “Had to open you up to get a decent sound out of you.” 

He can feel their eyes on him, can feel the questions that he doesn’t know how to answer. It’s a kindness when Bev continues on, moving them away from the awkwardness. He’s reeling, his whole body’s on fire and everything is too loud and can’t they hear the music? Can’t they hear the way the notes ring out and- 

-”among the first musical instruments were flutes carved of human bone.” 

He chokes on his breath as he finds himself swirling around in Hannibal’s office, bracketed between his shadows, who seem to realize that Will’s not all there. Or at least, that he wasn’t all there. He seems to be now. 

Hannibal continues, seemingly unaware of the confusion Will’s working through. They speak, and try as he might, Will can’t catch the words, can’t figure out what they’re talking about, until Hannibal asks him a question he can’t help but answer. 

“What do you see behind closed eyes?” 

Will thinks about those words. He thinks about lying, about what he should say in response to that. He knows what a stable person would say. He even knows what Hannibal would say. He can hear a hundred thousand answers from a hundred thousand voices, each one with its own distinct diction… 

He thinks about what he should say, but he opens his mouth to find himself admitting, “I see myself.” 

He keeps talking, then, going into detail and telling Hannibal about the symphony raging in the world. He tells him about the notes and how they hang in the air, how they’re haunting him, following him. How each one rings brightly to the tune of, “See?”

He tries not to think about how much he’s clearly not seeing. He tries not to think about how he might have gotten here, how he got to the morgue earlier, how he wakes up in his bed when he closes the door to his classroom. Instead, he hides behind the truths that don’t scare him, letting those escape instead. 

“See?” Hobbs asks, and Will’s entire body is shattering into a million pieces. 

===

There are too many people in the office, touching things they have no right to touch. He tries to filter them out, tries not to to let them intrude upon this space that he holds dear. Instead, he focuses on Hannibal. 

“I feel like I’ve dragged you into my world,” Will admits, letting his fatigue carry through in his voice. 

“I got here on my own,” Hannibal assures him, “But I appreciate the company.” 

Will laughs, unable to help himself, keeping his hand firm against Hannibal’s forehead. 

The two go silent, leaning into each others’ presence. Will savors the way Hannibal feels so alive, so real under his hand. His shadows have both worked their way to Will- both of them- both of them… 

He knows that Hannibal’s story to the police wasn’t true. He can tell that Hannibal lied about what happened in the office. Even if he wasn’t relatively sure of the things he’s pieced together, he wouldn’t have bought the story. The shadows are far too pleased with themselves, had been far too frustrated when Franklyn’s body was finally wheeled away. He’s no doubt that Hannibal killed Franklyn, and he knows this would be the perfect time to bring it up. 

It would be so easy to just speak up, bring it up, ask Hannibal… but he’s so relieved that Hannibal’s alive that he finds he really doesn’t care about those loose ends. 

“You really were worried about me?” Will asks, knowing that the answer is a firm yes. 

“I find… I find that I’d rather not consider a life without you; especially one in which I felt guilty for having pointed you toward your demise.” 

Will considers that. He hadn’t thought about that aspect, actually. That Hannibal had pointed him toward Budge. Who had been the weapon? Was he pointing Will, curious to see if he could wreak havoc on the man? Or was he sending him in to Budge, curious to see what Budge would do with him? 

He thinks it would have been rather poetic if Budge had killed him, but he’s honestly still just so relieved about Hannibal’s continued existence that he’s too tired to hold a grudge at the moment. Instead, he rests his forehead against Hannibal’s, fingers smoothing down the sides of his face. 

Hannibal’s still for a moment, but his shadows are warm and solid, wrapping them both in a cocoon and blocking everyone else from Will’s view. 

Eventually the cops finish up, bundling off and leaving Hannibal in Will’s care. As Hannibal locks up behind the two of them, he turns to Will, a teasing smile playing along his face. Will’s heart races as he puts together that it’s possibly one of the first real- honestly real- expressions he’s seen from Hannibal. 

“Since you feel so responsible for me,” Hannibal says, voice light, “Why don’t you accompany me to my house? I find that I’d rather not be alone tonight.” 

Will hesitates, and Hannibal slides back into his deliberate moves. He ducks his head, the move clearly contrived to look embarrassed at the hesitance Will’s showing, at what he’s obviously read into the question. He continues, looking away from Will as he adds, “Not, of course, in that sense.” 

Will thinks about it, though. He thinks about all the reasons there are to say no. He thinks about how he’s afraid the man in front of him might be (might be, might be, might be) a vicious killer. He thinks about how the man in front of him just sent him into a trap that he looked honestly shocked to see Will survive. He thinks about how the man in front of him just closed up an office that held two dead bodies just hours ago, both of which he was likely responsible for. 

But… he also has a fleeting thought about how relieved he was when the man in front of him was alive earlier. He thinks about how worried he’d been, rushing to the office, and the way the joy of seeing him alive almost brought him to his knees. 

He thinks about how often he thinks of Hannibal, how any time anything happens his first instinct is to reach out to Hannibal… 

He thinks about the line of Hannibal’s jaw. He thinks about how he wants to rub his face against Hannibal’s neck and see what Hannibal would be like unbuttoned and letting go of control. 

He thinks about going home to his house, where there are only dogs waiting to keep him company, waiting to watch as he wakes from nightmare after nightmare, and he replies, “What if I wanted it to be in that sense?” 

The words are worth it if only to watch the way Hannibal lights up, the way his eyes dilate a little just at those words. It’s worth it to feel the delight and surprise and honesty shoot through the room as he responds, “That would be fine, too, of course.” 

“Of course,” Will answers, grinning at him. 

“Of course.” 

Hannibal’s smile is a rare honest one, and Will feels it in his bones. This is easily the worst decision he’s ever made. Or maybe… maybe it’s the best. 

===

Will wakes up in Hannibal’s bed, with Hannibal carelessly sprawled against him. His shadows are tangled in a pile at the end of the bed, resting on top of the sheet covering them. 

He thinks about how happy he is in this moment, how calm and content he is. He could, perhaps, live in this moment forever. 

There are no nightmares here, no figures lurking in the corners, no cloud of worry stifling him. There is just… calm and belonging and… Hannibal. 

Will sighs into the pillow, feeling the weight of this decision and it’s revelation through every bit of him.


	8. Chapter Five

Will’s brightest memory of being loved is running. It’s his mother sending him away and his father sobbing through miles of desert scenery. Perhaps that’s why it makes sense to him to hide himself away. 

Something’s happening to him. He thought that things were changing, that he was struggling to adjust to the new normal of his life, like he had many times before. But now… now he’s afraid that maybe he’s just sick. Maybe this world is finally getting to him, cracking him down to his foundation and destroying everything he’s ever built for himself. Or maybe… maybe this is home, calling him back, making sure that he knows he can never escape. Or maybe. Maybe. Maybe he’s just going crazy. Maybe his mind is giving up on him. 

Maybe he’s just broken. 

He’s hearing things constantly, from words blowing on the wind to wounded animals in his walls to painful screams at scenes. He’s losing time, whole swaths of time, chunks of the day- he’s waking up in his room and heading into the kitchen only to find it’s a crime scene, and as he steps closer to the body he’s in the morgue, listening to Katz break things down for them. He has a constant headache, fevers and double vision, ringing in his ears… he’s in so much pain that he’s not sure he even remembers what it was like to not hurt. 

Losing time at the crime scene is upsetting, certainly. He knows he should be unsettled by that in itself- by waking up at a scene, with an unknown amount of time missing… but it’s more than that. It’s the complete helplessness he’d felt, thinking that he’d killed that girl. It’s the hopelessness that he’d felt when he realized it wasn’t just another nightmare. It’s the mortification of running straight into Crawford and Katz and Zeller and Price, of his horror being on display for all to see. 

He’s got. He’s got to figure this out. 

It’s affecting everything, though, not just work. Hannibal has tried to get him to come for dinner twice within the past week, tried to get him to stop by for lunch. But he’s not. He’s canceled their scheduled appointments and hasn’t dropped by unannounced as he typically does. 

He’s afraid of what might happen if he loses himself with Hannibal. What if he tells him that he’s figured out Hannibal’s secrets? What if he tells him his own secrets? What if… what if he tells him that he’s figured out his secrets, only for these Ripper certainties to be his mind spiralling? What if he’s wrong? If he doesn’t even know himself anymore, how can he think that he knows Hannibal? 

He’s worried that if this is just a new facet of his gift, if his life implodes while he tries to navigate it, that he’ll have to run again. His father used to move them around, running away from their past and clearly terrified that someone- something- was going to come after his son, drag Will back to a town that had eaten his mother alive. When things would shift and Will would change, that’s when his father would be most adamant about moving. What if he’s changing, what if he’s got a move looming in the distance? 

Last time something had changed, the only time it had happened without his father there to lead him elsewhere, he’d been stubborn. He’d tried to hold on to his life, to his job. He’d ignored all the warning signs, until it was almost too late. He’d watched as otherworldly figures moved toward him, cloaks flapping, and he’d ended up wounded in the line of duty. He’d let them think that he was moving away because he couldn’t deal with the trauma, but really, he was running away before they could get any closer to him. 

He thinks if he lets himself get closer to Hannibal then there’s no way he’ll ever let himself leave when the time inevitably comes that the figures move in on him again. 

===

When Will wakes up in the wrong place, he’s not even surprised, really. When he realizes where he is, he picks up his cell phone and scrolls until he comes to Bev’s name. He knows that his voice is shaky as he explains where he is, but she doesn’t question it. She doesn’t question why he’s calling at 5AM. She just tells him to sit on the porch and wait, 

She shows up cranky but bearing coffee and McDonald’s biscuits, shoving one at him and telling him to shut the fuck up and eat, even before he’s said anything. “I can’t deal with whatever the fuck this is until I’ve had a chance to eat something, and I’m willing to bet you haven’t eaten anything. When did you last eat, anyway?” 

He shrugs, accepts it with a forced thank you, and eats the biscuit, ignoring the way it sits heavily on his stomach. 

Bev walks through the house without him, and when she returns, she’s clearly at a loss. 

“Why did you call me? Why not Jack Crawford? Why not the police?”

“I called you because I’m not entirely sure what I saw was real,” he admits, trying not to jerk at the way the words just slide off of his tongue without his permission. He readies himself for the questions he knows are coming, the questions he knows he cannot answer...

“Then let’s prove it, then,” she says, and Will wants to sob. 

The two investigate around the house, bagging a few things for Bev to check into later in the lab, and when they’ve finished, Will isn’t sure he could tell her a single thing they did if she asked. He’s shaky and feverish, dizzy and tired.  
Bev looks at him seriously, “Listen, Will- I think you might be sick. I know this turned out, well…” she gestures around the room and he laughs. “But. I mean, have you considered that what you’ve told me might be because you’re ill?” 

Hannibal’s voice comes back to him, encouraging him to see a doctor, and he can remember dismissing it- afraid it would go poorly. He remembers that he wasn’t sure if he was more afraid that something would be amiss or that there wouldn’t be anything there. He remembers Hannibal’s insistence, his promise that knowing would help, how he’d spoken of a doctor he knew… Will isn’t sure when that conversation happened. Will’s not sure when… 

He looks at Bev and nods. She’s been nothing but kind to him. She stood beside him and taught him how to shoot so that it didn’t hurt his shoulders and she showed up at the crack of dawn to help him work through a nightmare come to life… 

“I don’t suppose you could drive me?” he asks, voice small. 

She beams at him, “I’ll even hold your hand if you need me to.” 

“Promise?” he asks, trying for a smile. 

“Absolutely, Graham. Come on, before you psych yourself out.” 

===

“Lecter’s not the only one with contacts, you know,” Bev had said, sitting in the car and dropping her cell phone in her purse. “She had a cancellation, moved a couple of other things around. She can see us as soon as we get there- no waiting around or anything. You sure you’re ready for this?”

Will had looked out the window, knowing that the answer to that was no. Instead, he’d managed to say, “That’s… that’s good. Sucks for the people that got moved around, I bet.” 

“Well, luckily, I don’t give a fuck about those people,” she’d shrugged. 

“But you give a fuck about me?” 

“Of course I do. We’re friends, aren’t we?” He had startled at that realization, although he hadn’t hesitated nearly as much as he did when Hannibal had asked him nearly the same thing. 

He holds onto the exchange as he sits in front of the doctor, with her pointing at things on the screen in front of him. Bev still sits beside him, hand gripping his firmly, just like she’d promised. He thinks about this woman, clutching his hand and picking him up and calling in favors and calling him friend, and he finds he’s relieved as the doctor tells him that his brain is messed up. His brain is messed up… he’s not going to have to leave. He’s not going to have to leave these people who have somehow made their way into his life. 

“The entire right side of your brain is inflamed,” the doctor explains, her voice soft and apologetic even though there’s no way this is his fault. “Anti-NMDA receptor encephalitis. Your symptoms are just going to get a lot worse if we don’t start treatment.” 

“What can we do about that?” he asks, aware that his voice is trembling. 

It is a massive relief to know it is a physical thing wrong with him and not something to do with mental illness or his past. He doesn’t actually hear the doctor’s reply, focusing instead on not having a complete meltdown and what this means. 

Bev pulls him out of it, bumping her shoulder against his. “Hey,” she says, “This is- I mean, it’s not good, but it’s good, right? This is something tangible, something we can do something about.” 

He knows she’s thinking about him bursting out of a room, terrified he’d killed someone, not even remembering showing up to examine a scene. He knows she’s thinking about him calling her, far too early in the morning, telling her about a dead girl and a skin sleeve and sounding like a lunatic. He knows she’s thinking about every awkward phrase he’s ever muttered in the morgue. 

“Yeah,” he answers. “Yeah.” 

“Let’s go over those options again,” the doctor says, smiling gently at them. 

==

He’s honestly kind of surprised when everyone respects his wishes and stays away for two weeks- it’s certainly not the month he’d asked for, or the two months the doctor recommended- but it’s longer than he expected them to last. 

Hannibal gives in first, shows up for lunch, bearing chicken soup. 

“Smells delicious,” Will says, following him into the kitchen. The dogs are careful around his feet, gentle and making sure they don’t get in his way. It’s more than he can say for Hannibal’s shadows, tripping over each other to get closer to him as they go. 

Hannibal glances back at him, then motions to the soup, “Silkie chicken in a broth. A black boned bird prized in China for its medicinal value since the 7th century. With wolfberries, ginseng, ginger, red dates, and star anise.” 

“You made me chicken soup.” 

“I found myself at a loss, unable to help you. I thought I might play to my strengths and feed you.” 

“You can just tell me if you were worried about me, you know,” Will teases. 

Hannibal’s voice is thick with emotion when he responds, “I was worried about you, Will.” 

Will’s too tired to craft a response to that, focusing on his soup instead. It’s delicious, but the shadows against his wall watching him eat are far more a comfort. 

Before Hannibal leaves, he makes dinner plans with Will, later in the week. That… that’s even more of a comfort, and it frustrates him to no end. 

Jack is the next to visit. 

“I’m not here on work,” he says as Will greets him at the door. “I’m here to make sure you’re doing alright.” 

Will thinks about that. Alright. Time’s moving slowly and his brain doesn’t want to process things, but there’ve been no time skips and the voices are quiet for once. He motions Jack in, sitting down to the leftover soup he’d just heated for lunch. 

“That Hannibal’s handiwork?” Jack asks, motioning toward the bowl. His shadow edges away from the table, awkward as he asks. 

“Yep,” Will responds, too tired to give him more than that. 

“Has he been by?” Jack asks, and at Will’s nod, he visibly pales. He paces the room, clearly working up to something.

“Look, I really didn’t come here for work, Will. But- if Hannibal’s been here… I need to tell you, Will.” 

And tell him Jack does. Will listens, body feeling more and more heavy as Jack explains to him that he’s been busy on his own time lately. He’d listened when Will had told him to follow Miriam. He’d listened when Will had told him how Hobbs was eating his victims, how Will had mentioned the organs and what they could be used for. He’d listened and he’d pieced together that the Ripper could be eating them as well. 

He tells Will about a perfectly timed dinner party. He tells Will about perfectly timed past dinner parties. He tells WIll about precise cuts and medical knowledge. He tells Will about sitting down with Miriam’s sister, about a phone call from Dr. Lecter that came through and how her sister had recognized that surname, even though she wasn’t sure why it seemed familiar. 

He tells Will all of these things, and Will feels his world narrowing, shrinking in on itself. He has no choice but to agree, to tell Jack that these things make sense. 

When Jack mistakes his shakiness as illness, he excuses himself. Will sees him to the door, and listens as Jack leans against the wall to look at him.

“Do me a favor, Will,” Jack says. “Stay away from Hannibal for a while. Don’t- don’t invite him over, don’t go visit him.” 

Will laughs hollowly, “I’ve got a couple more weeks of isolation if my doctor’s orders are anything to go by. I was starting to go stir crazy....” 

Jack shakes his head, “Better than the alternative. Listen to your doctor.” 

He lasts less than 24 hours. 

He wakes up to a text message from Hannibal. 

Jack requested that he and I dine together this evening, and was insistent that you weren’t accepting company when I informed him that I would be dining with you instead. While your company is far more pleasurable, I do hate to impose if you’re not feeling well enough for visitors.

Will presses his palms to his eyes hard enough to feel tiny bursts of pain. It’s too early for this. Glancing at the time stamp, he sighs and hauls himself out of bed when he realizes it’s already past ten. The dogs need to be fed, need to be let outside to run. He’s honestly surprised that he managed to sleep so late. It doesn’t matter- it will always be too early for this. 

He lets the text sit, open and waiting for a reply, while he feeds the dogs. When Buster begins to dance at the door, he grabs the phone and leads the pack out. 

He stopped by for dinner last night. I didn’t realize how much socializing would take out of me.

It’s not an answer, not really, but it buys him some time. He throws a stick that Ellie brings to him, keeping the pack entertained for a few moments until the next message comes through. 

Dinner can wait, then. I must admit to some disappointment; would you be amenable to lunch? 

Will tries to ignore the spark of longing that arises. Hannibal’s desire to see him is lovely on a few different levels. Will’s never been popular. He’s never had people anxious to see him, eager to spend time with him. It’s a new experience and- he finds- not entirely unpleasant. That it is Hannibal, distant and patient Hannibal, is so impatient to see him, that he’s sparked that level of desire in Hannibal… it’s almost impossible to imagine. 

He thinks about how to respond. 

He thinks about heeding Jack’s warning: ‘no visitors, no lunch, no dinner, no thank you’.

Hannibal would likely be none the wiser. He would go about his day, perhaps disgruntled or annoyed. He would use his day off to prepare for dinner with Jack, gathering ingredients and planning a menu. 

Jack would show up, a full host of agents with him, a show of power that the FBI would certainly reserve for someone like the Chesapeake Ripper. They would lie in wait until Hannibal answered the door, and then swarm. Would he put up a fight, all while knowing it was useless, that fighting would just give his guilt away quicker? Or would he acquiesce, elegant even in defeat? Either way, they would restrain him, guns trained on him while even more agents swarmed the house. 

Hannibal is smart, smart enough to have gotten away with this for years and years while leaving absolutely no evidence to point them toward anyone. But Hannibal is particular, fussy even. He would certainly have somewhere in his home where he worked, prepped, cleaned, stored… They would find it. They would stumble around, fumbling through everything, until Beverly got irritated and told them to stop so she could think. She’d be the one who found the workspace. 

The trial would be a sensation. He can almost hear the sound clips, see the headlines. Freddie Lounds would be beside herself, as grotesque as she could manage with pictures of bodies and pictures of food and taglines like ‘Hannibal the Cannibal’. Hannibal would disappear into the media sensation, get buried alive under whatever reactionary sentence they decided to serve him, and Will would never see him or hear from him again. 

Ellie whines, so he takes the stick from her once more, tossing it out into the yard. 

He types out a response, hesitating and reading it, unable to press send: ‘Jack’s probably onto something. Not today.’

Would Hannibal understand the warning? Is he paranoid enough to pick up on that? Maybe he would. Maybe he would spend the day preparing for Jack’s dinner- picking ingredients and planning a menu, but cataloguing everything he could use as a weapon if Will’s words were the warning they read like. 

Jack would show up, likely alone. It’s not like he has anything to go off except the hunch of a trainee he got killed years ago and the loose commentary of a teacher with encephalitis. The FBI couldn’t afford the embarrassment of being that wrong; Jack couldn’t afford the embarrassment of being that wrong. 

Jack’s smart, but he has absolutely no tact and is anything but subtle. Coupled with the text message, Hannibal would immediately know that Jack was here to investigate him. That Jack intended to take him in, dead or alive. 

They would fight, and it would be glorious and terrible and vicious in a way neither man had ever experienced. If Hannibal lost, he would lose his life, whether to Jack or to jail. Will thinks Hannibal would almost prefer death over the loss of his freedoms. If Jack lost, it would be his life, pure and simple. 

Will thinks about Hannibal, sleek and muscular and dangerous in a way that he hides beneath the fancy suits and quiet demeanor. Jack would not be expecting Hannibal to be the opponent that he is, not underestimating him totally but enough to be taken by surprise- if he wasn’t underestimating at least a bit, he wouldn’t be stepping into Hannibal’s home, giving him the advantage. It would be smarter to draw him out, restrain him elsewhere, then investigate. But Jack is confident, built like a boxer, all muscles and immoveable determination. They would be an even enough match that Will’s not entirely sure who would win. He thinks that the house would give Hannibal the advantage, allow him to back Jack into corners, improvise with weaponry. Jack would try to run, in the end, buy himself a few moments to recover before another round, but in the end? In the end, Hannibal would tear him to pieces and his own pride would mean that no one knew where he was, except Will. Will, who sent him in to be slaughtered. 

Max startles him, this time, slimy stick in mouth and tail wagging cheerfully. Once more into the yard, once more to the text message. He deletes what he’s written and tries to consider a different outcome, one where he doesn’t condemn either man. 

He thinks about saying, instead, ‘yes’, saying ‘please come over’. 

Hannibal would not hesitate, the day off affording him the luxury to go wherever he wants. Will thinks, possibly, that Hannibal would come over even if he had appointments scheduled. He thinks Hannibal might cancel those appointments, might do almost anything Will asked of him. He would pull up, slowly, careful to avoid the excitable dogs that would be bouncing around his car. He would click his tongue like Will showed him and hold his hand out, distributing treats that he always seems to carry when he visits, until they lost interest with him and he could join Will on the porch. 

“Are you alright, Will?” he would ask, because he would certainly pick up on the tension and worry that Will’s been carrying since Jack’s visit last night, if not even longer. 

He would pull Hannibal into the house, shutting the door on the outside world and tucking his face against his neck. He would rest there, Hannibal’s hands soothing up and down his arms until he quit trembling, and then he would shift, press his mouth to Hannibal’s neck and let it rest there. Hannibal would whisper to him, quiet placations meant to get his breathing back on track, until Will managed to work up the courage to tell him. 

“Jack’s onto you. Jack knows,” he would whisper, not daring to look. 

Hannibal would tense up, arms not leaving Will, but no longer loose and comforting, and Will would find his voice, would tell him, voice strong and unafraid, “I know who you are, Hannibal.” 

It would be Will’s turn to shift, to rub the tension from Hannibal’s arm, to whisper reassurances and tell him that it doesn’t matter, it never mattered, that he needs Hannibal in his life. He would tell Hannibal that they needed to leave, they needed to get away before Jack could interfere. 

Hannibal would not argue, and since he is who he is- in every sense of the phrase- he would have plans in place. His resources have always seemed endless, and Will would be breathless in the face of them, in the way he would almost immediately have a plan. It would take some tweaking to include Will in whatever plan he had in place for himself in the event of ever being discovered, but Hannibal would do it, because he cares for Will. He does not want to lose Will any more than Will wants to lose him. He is adaptable and intelligent; they would make the plan work. 

They could go anywhere. Perhaps they would go to Paris and Hannibal could show him the streets he roamed as a young man. Maybe they would disappear to Monaco and Hannibal could teach him to indulge in life’s excesses. Maybe they would go to Argentina, take in ballets and shows and each other. It wouldn’t matter where they went, so long as Will spoke up and told him and let him take them both away. 

Will considers these outcomes as his thumb hovers over the phone. He considers a life with Hannibal and a life without Hannibal. He thinks of a life with Hannibal separated from him by bars and cages and a testimony that they would have to drag out of a reluctant Will, a life where Hannibal had disappeared into the world never to speak to Will again. 

Will? Would you care to have lunch with me? 

The follow up text jolts him out of his head, and he pauses only the briefest moment longer before typing out his answer. 

===

By the time Hannibal arrives for lunch, Will has worked himself into quite a state. The dogs are happy to help him disperse of his nervous energy, racing happily into the yard to bring back balls and sticks as he tosses. 

Hannibal’s shadows clearly pick up on his unease immediately, with one moving to mimic Hannibal with a near perfect routine while the other wastes no time in curling itself around Will’s shoulders. 

“Are you alright, Will?” Hannibal asks, pausing in front of the porch to look at him. 

Almost an hour now and Will’s not prepared for that question. His voice catches in his throat and he lets out a choked laugh, whole body trembling with it. 

“You’re the Chesapeake Ripper, aren’t you?” he finally manages, proud of how steady his voice is. He doesn’t mean for it to come out as a question, but it doesn’t matter. 

Hannibal and his shadows all freeze: Hannibal is eerily still, whereas one of the shadows freezes with him. The other shadow stays still for a moment before sliding back to them, hovering behind them and growing larger and larger, as if to protect the other two from whatever Will has in store for them next. 

“When did you figure this out?” Hannibal finally asks, still not moving. 

Will’s hyper aware of the dogs bouncing around the yard as he answers with another laugh tearing its way out of him. He scrubs his hand over his face, lets his fingers tangle in his hair. He chews his lip for a moment, finally finding words, “I’m honestly trying to figure out when I didn’t know.” 

“Try harder,” Hannibal requests, his body remaining still despite his eyes tracking Will’s erratic movements on the porch. 

“It was… I don’t know? Early on? Your dinner party, probably. That’s got to be when I knew, rather than suspected. Surely that’s where I quit guessing and finally figured it out,” Will says, voice far less steady than it was when he’d asked, words flowing easier but far more unsure. 

“My dinner party? That was months ago. Before we…” It’s uncharacteristic for Hannibal to let himself trail off, but Will picks up on it quickly. 

“Before Budge, yeah,” he responds, unable to bring himself to finish the phrase Hannibal had started. Hannibal’s lips quirk at how Will chooses to phrase it, much the way they had when Will had pressed himself against Hannibal and asked him to take him to bed. 

“Why are you telling me now?” Hannibal asks, moving only so much as to allow himself to relax, to seem relaxed. 

“Because I’m not the only person who knows,” Will answers.

“Jack,” Hannibal responds, and Will looks down at the dog that has just dropped his toy at his feet. 

He bends down, picks up the toy, tosses. 

“I didn’t tell him,” Will says. 

“And yet you feel guilty,” Hannibal surmises. Frustration and pain are rolling off of him, his shadows both spiky and angry. 

“I guess I said the right thing at the right time to get him thinking on the right track,” Will admits.

“How?” 

“I was sick and I was mad and I was tired. I told him to figure it out his own damn self. I told him to think follow Miriam Lass before he sent me to repeat her fate.” 

“And you don’t think he’d followed Lass before?” 

“I think he’d followed but he hadn’t been as motivated as he was this time. I guess no one had been calling him with her voice and leaving him arms.” His words are pointed and give away the patience he’s losing. 

Hannibal considers this, obviously thinks about it. Will can tell what he’s thinking, can see it broadcast across his face. 

“Don’t- you can’t go after him.” 

“Can’t I?” 

“There’s no way of knowing who else he’s told,” Will admits. “All he told me was that I should stay away from you until he figured it out.” 

Hannibal nods, “Thank you for letting me know.” 

It’s all he says before he turns and walks to his car. 

“Hannibal-” Will starts, cutting himself off. 

“I have things I must attend to, Will.” 

And with that, Hannibal is gone. 

Will isn’t supposed to drink on the medicines he’s on. It doesn’t stop him, though. He can’t stop thinking- how many hours until Jack and Hannibal have dinner? How many hours until he finds out what happens? 

He should have said something, shouldn’t have said something, should have- should have- should have. 

He’s three glasses of whiskey in before he hears the car in the drive. 

The dogs are excitable, bouncing around at the idea of going back outside after being cooped up for so many days in a row now. Weeks without a drink means that Will’s unsteady on his feet as he walks to the door. 

When he sees Hannibal’s car, he almost drops the glass he didn’t even realize he was carrying. 

Hannibal steps out, raising a hand. 

“I thought I might let you know that I am leaving, Will,” Hannibal says. 

Will’s throat tightens. 

“I thought,” Hannibal continues, walking toward Will. “I thought I might ask you to go with me.” 

“Might ask?” Will responds, barely daring to let himself speak. 

“Might. I don’t think I could stand it if you denied me, though,” Hannibal admits, raising a hand to brush against Will’s cheek. 

“Maybe I’d surprise you,” Will responds, allowing himself to catch Hannibal’s hand, to keep it pressed to his face. 

“What could possibly compel you to go with me, Will?” Hannibal asks, voice raw and vulnerable in a way that he’s never heard before. 

Will lets go of his hand, thinks about stepping away. 

He makes himself answer, though. It’s the least Hannibal deserves. 

“You remind me of home,” Will admits, unable to bring his eyes up to meet Hannibal’s. 

He can feel Hannibal’s shadows both preen at that, can feel one sliding around his neck in a dark caress. A finger brushes against his forehead, an errant curl being pushed back, and he has to look to see if it’s man or shadow. It’s Hannibal himself, and the emotion in his eyes threatens to bring Will to his knees. 

Hannibal’s voice is thick with that emotion when he finally responds, “That’s a lovely compliment.” 

There’s a moment of silence between them before an ugly, desperate laugh claws its way out of Will’s throat. 

“It’s really not,” he whispers, but he clings to Hannibal all the same.


	9. Epilogue

Will Graham was six years old when he got his first crush. 

“Mama?” Will had asked, wandering into the kitchen and sitting down at the table. 

She’d been baking, rolling out dough and humming to herself as she did so. Her shadow had been dancing around the room in time to her humming. When they’d realized he was there, when he spoke, her shadow had twirled around him, fluffing his hair lightly and delighting in the way it had made him grin. 

“Yes, My Darling?” she’d asked, angling her body so that she could watch him as she worked. 

“How do you know when you’re in love? How did you know you loved Daddy?” he asked. 

She’d considered it for a few moments, continuing her rolling until she got to a stopping point. He’d watched her set it aside, moving to sit across from him at the table. 

“I think it might be different for everyone,” she finally answered, having taken her time to consider it fully. “I knew I loved your father the instant I laid eyes on him.” 

He had watched her patiently, waiting for her to continue, hands folded on the table in front of him. 

She laughed, leaning over to cover his hands with her own, “My serious boy! I suppose you want to know how I met him, when I first saw him?” 

He’d nodded, watching still. 

“I’d just left a meeting at town hall,” she had told him, “When I noticed a car that was new in town. You know how it is- we don’t get many new people here. The car was broken down, smoke rolling from the engine. I thought it was abandoned at first, but when I got closer, I saw someone sitting beside it.” 

He had a feeling that he knew who it was, but he’d kept quiet, waiting and watching. 

“Your father was new in town,” she continued. “He didn’t look like anyone I’d ever seen, and I was instantly in love with him.” 

“Did he love you, too?” Will asked. 

“Not right away. I think the town was a little… weird… to him, at first. It took some time for him to get used to it, to realize he wouldn’t be leaving. But once he got used to it, he came to find me.” 

“What’d he do?” 

“He asked me to have dinner with him. We ate at Rico’s and I told him that we were going to get married one day.” 

“Did he believe you?” 

“I don’t think so. I think he thought I was just silly. But here we are,” she laughed. “Married and with the most darling son in the world.” 

Will had laughed, delighted at how her shadow had wrapped him up in a hug, pressing phantom lips to his cheeks. 

“How will I know when I’m in love?” he’d asked, finally. 

She’d pursed her lips and considered, “Well, one day you’ll meet someone who makes your heart flutter. You’ll meet someone who sees you for who you are, who you see for who they are, and you’ll just know that you’re better together. You’ll meet someone and you want them with you all the time, you’ll want to do things together and go places together and spend all your time with them. You will look at that person and you will know that your home is wherever they are.” 

He’d considered this, “What if you only like them a little bit of that much?” 

She’d laughed, getting up to walk around the table and press her lips against his forehead. “Who has caught your attention, my sweet Will?” 

“Mylee,” he had admitted, blushing. 

“Mylee! What a sweetheart! Good call,” she’d responded, kissing his forehead again. 

He watched his mother as she swept back to her dough, humming, and wondered if he’d ever find someone that could come close to feeling like what she’d described. 

It was hard to imagine feeling more at home than he did here, in this kitchen, with his mother while they waited for his father, with her shadow dancing around and laughing. 

Home. 

Hmm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this works as well out of my head as it did within my head, and I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Fanart] Art for "The Complexion of the Dead" by fictionalfaerie](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24602515) by [VergofTowels](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VergofTowels/pseuds/VergofTowels)




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